;-NRLF 


JUDGE  LEANDER  STILLWELL 
December,  1909. 


THE  STORY 

OF 

F  A  COMMON  SOLDIER 

OF 

ARMY  LIFE  IN  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

1861-1865 


SECOND  EDITION 


By 

LEANDER  STILLWELL 

»> 

Late  of  Co.  D,  61st  Illinois  Infantry 


Franklin  Hudson  Publishing  Coi 
1920 


Copyright  1920  by 
LEANDER  STILLWELL 


DEDICATED   TO   MY   YOUNGEST  SON, 

JEREMIAH   E.  STILLWELL. 
DEAR  JERRY: 

You  have  earnestly  asked  me  to  write  something  in  the  nature  of  an 
extended  account  of  my  career  as  a  soldier  in  the  Union  army  during  the 
Civil  War.  It  will  be  a  rather  strenuous  undertaking  for  a  man  of  my 
age.  I  shall  be  seventy-three  years  old  in  about  three  months,  and  the 
truth  is,  I  am  now  becoming  somewhat  indolent,  and  averse  to  labor  of 
any  kind,  either  mental  or  physical.  But  I  have  concluded  to  comply 
with  your  request,  and  undertake  the  work.  Whether  I  shall  complete 
it,  or  not,  I  cannot  now  positively  say,  but  I  will  do  the  best  I  can.  And 
I  will  also  say,  for  whatever  you  may  think  it  worth,  that  YOU  are  the 
only  person,  now  living,  whose  request  could  induce  me  to  undertake 
the  sketch  that  you  desire. 

L.  STILLWELL. 

Erie,  Kansas, 
July  3,  1916. 


M 196189 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. — The  Beginning  of  the  War. — Life  at  Camp  Carrollton, 
January  and  February,  1862 9 

CHAPTER  II. — Benton  Barracks. — St.  Louis,  Maich,  1862 22 

CHAPTER  III.— Off  for  the  Seat  of  War.— The  Battle  of  Sbiloh.— 
March  and  April,  1862 30 

CHAPTER  IV. — Seme  Incidents  of  the  Battle  of  Shiloh 54 

CHAPTER  V. — The  Siege  of  Corinth. — In  Camp  at  Owl  Creek. — April 

and  May,  1862 69 

CHAPTER  VI. — Bethel. — Jackson. — June  and  July,  1862 78 

CHAPTER  VII. — Bolivar. — July.  August,  and  September,  1862 90 

CHAPTER  VIII. — Bolivar. — The  Movement  to  the  Vicinity  of  luka, 
Mississippi. — September-December,  1862 98 

CHAPTER  IX. — The  Affair  at  Salem  Cemetery. — Jackson,  Cairoll  Sta 
tion. —  December,  1862,  January,  1863.  —  Bolivar.  —  February- 
May,  1863 114 

CHAPTER  X. — The  Siege  of  Vicksbuig. — June  and  July,  1863 133 

CHAPTER  XI. — Helena,  Arkansas. — Life  in  a  Hospital. — August,  1863.149 
CHAPTER  XII.— DevalPs  Bluff.— Little  Rock.— August-October,  1863. 157 

CHAPTER  XIIL— Little  Rock,  October,  1863.— Granted'a  Furlough.— 
Chaplain  B.  B.  Hamilton. — The  Journey  on  Furlough  from  Little 
Rock  to  Jersey  Countv,  Illinois. — Return  to  Regiment,  Novem 
ber,  1863 165 

CHAPTER  XIV.— Little  Rock.— Winter  of  1863-4.— Re-enlist  for  Three 
Years  More 182 

CHAPTER  XV. — Little  Rock. — Expeditions  to  Augusta  andJSpring- 
field. — March,  April,  and  May,  1864 190 

CHAPTER  XVI. — Devall's  Bluff;  The  Clarendon  Expedition. — June 
and  July,  1864 203 

CHAPTER  XVII. — Devall's  Bluff  — Grand  Reviews^and  Inspections. — 
Surgeon  J.  P.  Anthony. — Private  Press  Allender.  — June  and 
July,  1864 ..209 


CONTENTS— Continued. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XVIII. — The  Regiment  Goes  Home  on  Veteran  Furbu^h. — 
Interview  with  General  W.  T.  Sherman  After  the  War.— A  Short 
Tour  of  Soldieiing  at  Chester,  Illinois. — August,  September,  and 
October,  1864 216 

CHAPTER  XIX. — Expedition  to  North  Missouri. — -Back  in  Tennessee 
Once  More. — Muifreesboro. — October  and  November,  1861 225 

CHAPTER  XX. — The  Affair  at  Overall's  Creek. — Murfreesb^ro. — De 
cember,  1864 233 

CHAPTER  XXI.— The  Battle  of  Wilkinson's  Pike.— December  7,  1854.238 

CHAPTER  XXII. — The  Fight  on  the  Railroad  Near  Mui  f  reesboro,  D  e- 
cember  15,  1864 247 

CHAPTER  XXIIL— Murfreesboro.—  Winter  of  1864-1865.— Franklin  .— 
Spring  and  Summer  of  1865 258 

CHAPTER  XXIV. — The  Soldier's  Pay;  Rations;  Allusions  to  Some  of 
the  Useful  Lessons  Learned  by  Service  in  the  Aimy  in  Time  of 
War;  Courage  in  Battle 265 

CHAPTER  XXV. — Franklin,  Summer  of  1865. — Mustered  Out,  Septem- 
bei  8,  1865. — Receive  Final  Payment  at  Springfield,  Illinois,  Sep 
tember  27,  1865.— The  Regiment  "Breaks  Ranks"  Forever 275 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON   SOLDIER. 


PREFACE. 


When  I  began  writing  these  reminiscences  it  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  preface  was  necessary.  It  was 
thought  that  the  dedication  to  my  son  Jerry  contained  sufficient  ex 
planation.  But  I  have  now  finished  writing  these  recollections,  and 
in  view  of  all  that  they  set  forth,  I  believe  that  a  few  brief  prefa 
tory  remarks  may  now  be  appropriate.  In  the  first  place  it  will  be 
said  that  when  I  began  the  work  it  was  only  to  gratify  my  son,  and 
without  any  thought  or  expectation  that  it  would  ever  be  published. 
I  don't  know  yet  that  such  will  be  done,  but  it  may  happen.  The 
thought  occurred  to  me  after  I  had  written  some  part  of  it,  and  it 
is  possible  that  about  at  that  point  some  change  began  to  take  place 
in  the  style,  and  phraseology,  and  which  perhaps  may  be  observed. 
So  much  for  that.  Next  I  will  say  that  all  statements  of  fact  here 
in  made,  based  upon  my  own  knowledge,  can  be  relied  on  as  abso 
lutely  true.  My  mother  most  carefully  preserved  the  letters  I  wrote 
home  froim  the  army  to  her  and  to  my  father.  She  died  on  February 
6,  1894,  and  thereafter  my  father  (who  survived  her  only  about 
three  years)  gave  back  to  me  these  old  letters.  In  writing  to  my 
parents  I  wrote,  as  a  rule,  a  letter  every  week  when  the  opportunity 
was  afforded,  and  now  in  this  undertaking  with  these  letters 
before  me  it  was  easy  to  follow  the  regiment  every  mile  of  its  way 
from  Camp  Carrollton  in  January,  1862,  to  Camp  Butler,  in  Sep 
tember,  1865.  Furthermore,  on  June  1,  1863,  at  Memphis,  Tennes 
see,  as  we  passed  through  there  on  our  way  to  join  Grant's  army  at 
Vicksburg,  I  bought  a  little  blank  book  about  four  inches  long, 
three  inches  wide,  and  half  an  inch  thick.  From  that  time  until  we 
were  mustered  out,  I  kept  a  sort  of  very  brief  diary  in  this  little 
book,  and  have  it  yet.  The  old  letters  and  this  book  have  been  in 
valuable  to  me  in  writing  my  recollections,  and  having  been  written 


8  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

at  or  near  the  time  of  the  happening  of  the  events  they  mention, 
can  be  relied  on  as  accurate  and  truthful. 

Though  I  attained  the  rank  of  a  commissioned  officer  while  in 
the  service,  yet  that  did  not  occur  until  near  the  end  of  my  time, 
and  after  the  war  was  over.  So  it  is  submitted  that  the  title  given 
these  sketches,  'The  Story  of  a  Common  Soldier,"  is  warranted 
by  the  facts. 

If  this  manuscript  should  ever  be  published,  it  will  go  to  the 
world  without  any  apology  or  commendation  from  me  whatever.  It 
is,  though,  only  fair  to  say  that  I  make  no  pretensions  to  being  a 
"literary"  man.  This  is  simply  the  story  of  a  common  soldier  who 
served  in  the  army  during  the  great  war,  and  who  faithfully  tried 
to  do  his  duty. 

L.  STILLWELL. 

December  30,  1916. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  WAR.— LIFE  AT  CAMP  CARROLL- 
TON,  JANUARY  AND  FEBRUARY,  1862. 

I  was  born  September  16,  1843,  on  a  farm,  in  Otter  Creek  pre 
cinct,  Jersey  County,  Illinois.  I  was  living  with  my  parents,  in  the 
little  old  log  house  where  I  was  born,  when  the  Civil  war  began. 
The  Confederates  fired  on  Fort  Sumter  on  April  12,  1861,  and  thus 
commenced  the  war.  On  April  15,  1861,  President  Lincoln  issued  a 
call  for  75,000  men,  to  aid  in  putting  down  the  existing  rebellion. 
Illinois  promptly  furnished  her  quota,  and  in  addition,  thousands 
of  men  were  turned  away,  for  the  reason  that  the  complement  of 
the  State  was  complete,  and  there  was  no  room  for  them.  The  sol 
diers  under  this  call  were  mustered  in  for  three  months'  service 
only,  for  the  government  then  seemed  to  be  of  the  opinion  that  the 
troubles  would  be  over  by  the  end  of  that  time.  But  on  May  3, 
1861,  Mr.  Lincoln  issued  another  call  for  volunteers,  the  number 
specified  being  a  little  over  42,000,  and  their  term  of  service  was 
fixed  at  three  years,  unless  sooner  discharged.  The  same  call  pro 
vided  for  a  substantial  increase  in  the  regular  army  and  navy.  I 
did  not  enlist  under  either  of  these  calls.  As  above  stated,  the  be 
lief  then  was  almost  universal  throughout  the  North  that  the 
"war"  would  amount  to  nothing  much  but  a  summer  frolic,  and 
would  be  over  by  the  4th  of  July.  We  had  the  utmost  confidence 
that  Richmond  would  be  taken  by  that  time,  and  that  Jeff  Davis 
and  his  cabinet  would  be  prisoners,  or  fugitives.  But  the  battle  of 
Bull  Run,  fought  on  July  21,  1861,  gave  the  loyal  people  of  the  Na 
tion  a  terrible  awakening.  The  result  of  this  battle  was  a  crushing 
disappointment  and  a  bitter  mortification  to  all  the  friends  of  the 
Union.  They  realized  then  that  a  long  and  bloody  struggle  was 
before  them.  But  Bull  Run  was  probably  all  for  the  best.  Had  it 
been  a  Union  victory,  and  the  Rebellion  then  been  crushed,  negro 


10  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

slavery  would  have  been  retained,  and  the  "irrepressible  conflict" 
would  have  been  fought  out  likely  in  your  time,  with  doubtless  ten 
fold  the  loss  of  life  and  limb  that  ensued  in  the  war  of  the  sixties. 

The  day  after  the  battle  of  Bull  Run  Congress  passed  a  law  au 
thorizing  Mr.  Lincoln  to  call  for  five  hundred  thousand  three-years 
volunteers.  It  was  under  this  law,  supplemented  by  authority 
from  the  Secretary  of  War,  that  the  regiment  was  organized  in 
which  I  subsequently  enlisted.  I  wras  then  only  a  boy,  but  some 
how  I  felt  that  the  war  was  going  to  be  a  long  one,  and  that  it  was 
the  duty  of  every  young  fellow  of  the  requisite  physical  ability  to 
"go  for  a  soldier,"  and  help  save  the  Nation.  I  had  some  talk  with 
my  father  on  the  subject.  He  was  a  strong  Union  man,  and  in 
syimpathy  with  my  feelings,  but  I  could  see  that  naturally  he 
dreaded  the  idea  of  his  boy  going  to  the  war,  with  the  result  that 
maybe  he  would  be  killed,  or  come  home  a  cripple  for  life.  But  I 
gave  him  to  understand  that  when  they  began  organizing  a  regi 
ment  in  our  vicinity,  and  which  would  contain  a  fair  proportion  of 
my  neighbor  boys  and  acquaintances,  I  intended  then  to  volunteer. 
It  was  simply  intolerable  to  think  that  I  could  stay  at  home,  among 
the  girls,  and  be  pointed  at  by  the  soldier  boys  aa  a  stay-at-home 
coward. 

The  work  of  organizing  and  recruiting  for  a  regiment  in  our 
corner  of  the  State  began  early  in  the  autumn  of  1861.  The  various 
counties  in  that  immediate  locality  were  overwhelmingly  Demo 
cratic  ir>  politics,  and  many  of  the  people  were  strong  "Southern 
sympathizers,"  as  they  were  then  called,  and  who  later  developed 
into  virulent  Copperheads  and  Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle.  Prob 
ably  90  per  cent  of  the  inhabitants  of  Greene,  Jersey,  Scott,  Morgan, 
and  adjoining  counties  came  from  the  Southern  States,  or  were  the 
direct  descendants  of  people  from  that  part  of  the  country.  Ken- 
tuckians,  Tennesseeans,  and  North  and  South  Carolinians  were  es 
pecially  numerous.  But  it  is  only  fair  and  the  truth  to  say  that 
many  of  the  most  prominent  and  dangerous  of  this  Copperhead 
element  were  men  from  remote  Eastern  States.  What  caused  these 
persons  to  pursue  this  shameful  course  I  do  not  know.  President 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON   SOLDIER.  11 

Lincoln  was  personally  well  aware  of  these  political  conditions  in 
our  locality,  as  his  old  home,  at  Springfield,  the  State  Capital,  was 
not  far  away,  and  he  doubtless  knew  every  man  of  reasonable  prom 
inence  in  our  entire  Congressional  District.  He  wanted  soldiers,  re 
gardless  of  politics,  but  it  was  necessary,  in  that  locality,  to  hold 
out  some  special  inducements  to  his  constituents  of  the  Democratic 
faith.  So,  for  that  reason,  (with  others,)  as  was  well  understood 
at  the  time,  Gen.  Jacob  Fry  of  Greene  County,  a  Kentuckian  by 
birth  and  a  life-long  Democrat,  was  selected  as  the  one  to  recruit 
and  organize,  and  to  be  the  colonel  of  the  regiment  to  be  raised 
from  the  counties  above  named  and  their  vicinity.  Aside  from 
the  political  consideration,  this  selection  of  Gen.  Fry  was  regarded 
at  the  time  as  a  very  good  and  appropriate  one.  He  was  an  old- 
timer,  having  been  a  resident  of  Greene  county  from  his  boyhood, 
had  been  sheriff  of  the  county,  and  had  held  other  responsible  of 
fices.  And,  what  was  considered  still  more  important,  he  had  serv 
ed  with  credit  and  distinction  in  the  "Black  Hawk  War"  in  1831-2, 
where  he  held  the  rank  of  Colonel.  Soon  after  the  close  of  this  In 
dian  disturbance,  he  was  made  Brigadier-General,  and  subsequent 
ly  Major-General,  of  the  Illinois  militia.  He  was  a  grand  old  man, 
of  temperate  habits,  strict  integrity,  and  unflinching  bravery.  But 
he  was  sixty-two  years  old,  and  that  proved  to  be  a  handicap  that 
eventually  resulted  in  his  resignation,  as  will  appear  later. 

The  Fair  Grounds,  about  half  a  mile  east  of  Carrollton,  thjG 
county  seat  of  Greene  County,  were  designated  as  the  "Camp  of  In 
struction"  for  Col.  Fry's  regiment.  Recruiting  for  it  began 
about  the  last  of  September,  but  it  proceeded  very  slowly.  Several 
of  the  boys  from  my  neighborhood  had  previously  enlisted  in  other 
regiments,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  "wiry  edge"  of  volunteering  had 
somewhat  worn  off.  Co.  F  of  the  14th  Illinois  Infantry  had  been 
raised  almost  entirely  in  Jersey  county,  and  several  of  my  old 
schoolmates  were  in  that  company.  And  there  were  little  squads 
that  had  joined  other  regiments.  The  22nd  and  the  27th  Illinois 
Infantry  and  the  9th  Missouri  Infantry,  (afterwards  designated  as 
the  59th  Illinois  Infantry,)  each  had  some  men  and  boys  from  our 
part  of  the  county. 


12  1HE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

Up  in  the  northwest  corner  of  Jersey  County  and  close  to  the 
Greene  county  line  lived  an  old  farmer  by  the  name  of  John  H.  Red 
dish.  He,  too,  had  served  in  the  Black  Hawk  War,  and  under  the 
command  of  Col.  Fry.  The  highest  position  he  attained  in  that 
scrap,  as  shown  by  the  records,  was  that  of  corporal,  but,  regard 
less  of  his  rank,  it  is  entirely  safe  to  say  that  he  was  a  fighter.  As 
soon  as  it  was  announced  that  Col.  Fry  was  raising  a  regiment,  and 
was  to  be  its  colonel,  Uncle  John  Reddish  forthwith  took  the  field 
to  recruit  a  company  for  this  organization.  The  fact  that  he  had 
been  a  Black  Hawk  war  soldier  gave  him  immense  prestige,  and 
settled  in  his  favor  the  question  of  his  military  qualifications  with 
out  further  evidence.  The  truth  is  that  at  that  time  almost  any 
man  of  good  repute  and  fair  intelligence,  who  had  seen  service  in 
this  Black  Hawk  racket,  or  the  Mexican  war,  was  regarded  as  fit 
and  desirable  for  a  commissioned  officer,  or,  at  the  least,  pretty  high 
up  in  the  non-commissioned  line.  But,  as  it  afterwards  turned  out, 
that  was  an  erroneous  notion.  There  were  exceptions,  of  course, 
but  in  any  event,  as  regards  the  Black  Hawk  episode,  service  during 
it  was  of  no  practical  benefit  whatever  to  a  man  who  became  there 
by  an  officer  in  the  Civil  war.  Capt.  Reddish  was  kind  hearted, 
and  as  brave  an  old  fellow  as  a  reckless  and  indiscriminating  bull 
dog,  but,  aside  from  his  personal  courage,  he  had  no  military  quali 
ties  whatever,  and  failed  to  acquire  any  during  his  entire  service. 
He  never  could  learn  the  drill,  except  the  most  simple  company 
movements.  He  was  also  very  illiterate,  and  could  barely  write  his 
name.  And  his  commands  on  drill  were  generally  laughable.  For 
instance,  in  giving  the  command  of  right  or  left  wheel,  he  would 
supplement  it  by  saying,  "Swing  around,  boys,  just  like  a  gate." 
Such  directions  would  mortify  us  exceedingly,  and  caused  the  men 
of  the  other  companies  to  laugh  at  and  twit  us  about  our  Captain. 
He  would  have  made  a  first-class  duty  sergeant,  and  that  was  as 
high  a  rank  as  he  was  capable  of  properly  filling.  But  he  was  a 
good  old  man,  and  furiously  patriotic.  He  loved  a  fighter  and  abom 
inated  a  coward,  and,  on  the  whole,  his  men  couldn't  help  but  like 
him.  Capt.  Reddish  selected  for  his  first,  or  orderly  sergeant,  as 


(Father  of  Leander  Still  well.) 


THE  STORY   FO   A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  13 

the  position  was  generally  designated,  Enoch  W.  Wallace,  of  my 
neighborhood.  Enoch,  as  we  usually  called  him,  was  an  old 
acquaintance  and  intimate  friend  of  my  parents,  and  I  too  had 
known  him  from  the  time  I  was  quite  a  little  boy.  Take  him  all  in 
all,  he  was  just  one  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew.  He  had  seen  serv 
ice  as  a  Mexican  war  soldier,  but  owing  to  his  youth,  being  only 
about  sixteen  when  that  war  began,  1  think  he  did  not  get  in  till 
towards  the  last,  and  hence  his  service  was  short.  But  he  learned 
something  about  company  drill.  When  I  heard  that  Wallace  was 
to  be  the  first  sergeant  of  Capt.  Reddish's  company,  I  made  up  my 
mind,  right  then,  that  I  would  enlist  in  that  company,  and  told  my 
father  I  was  going  to  do  so.  He  listened  in  silence,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground.  Finally  he  said,  "Well,  Leander,  if  you  think 
it's  your  duty  to  go,  I  shall  make  no  objection.  But  you're  the  only 
boy  I  now  have  at  home  big  enough  to  work,  so  I  wish  you'd  put  it 
off  until  we  get  the  wheat  sowed,  and  the  corn  gathered.  Then,  if 
you're  still  of  the  same  mind,  it'll  be  all  right."  I  felt  satisfied  that 
the  regiment  would  not  leave  for  the  front  until  after  we  had  done 
that  work,  so  I  at  once  consented  to  my  father's  request. 

An  incident  happened  about  this  time  that  greatly  stimulated 
my  desire  to  get  into  the  army.  Harvey  Edsall,  a  neighbor  boy 
some  four  or  five  years  my  senior,  had  enlisted  that  summer  in  the 
22nd  Illinois  Infantry.  Harvey,  with  his  regiment,  was  in  the  bat 
tle  of  Belmont  on  November  7,  1861,  and  in  the  action  received  a 
rather  severe  gun  shot  wound  in  the  calf  of  one  of  his  legs.  As 
soon  as  he  was  able  to  stand  the  travel,  he  was  sent  home  on  fur 
lough,  and  I  met  him  soon  after  his  arrival  at  his  father's  house, 
where  the  people  had  gathered  to  listen  to  "the  preaching  of  the 
word"  by  Elder  Harrison  Rowden.  (We  had  no  regular  church 
building  in  our  immediate  neighborhood  then,  and  religious  services 
were  held  at  private  houses.)  Harvey  was  rapidly  recovering,  but 
his  wounded  leg  was  still  swathed  in  bandages,  and  he  walked  on 
crutches.  I  well  remember  how  we  boys  stood  around  and  looked 
at  him  with  wide-eyed  admiration.  And  he  had  to  tell  us  the  story 
of  the  fight,  and  all  about  the  circumstances  connected  with  the 


14  THE   STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

shot  he  got  in  his  leg,  until  he  probably  was  sick  and  tired  of  the 
subject.  But,  for  my  part,  I  thought  Harvey's  story  was  just 
grand,  and  it  somehow  impressed  me  with  the  idea  that  the  only 
life  worth  living  was  that  of  a  soldier  in  time  of  war.  The  idea  of 
staying  at  home  and  turning  over  senseless  clods  on  the  farm  with 
the  cannon  thundering  so  close  at  hand  that  the  old  men  said  that 
when  the  wind  was  from  the  south  they  sometimes  smelled  the 
powder! — was  simply  intolerable. 

Remember  all  the  time,  as  you  read  these  recollections  of  an 
old  man,  that  I  am  trying  to  give  you  merely  some  conception  of  the 
thoughts,  feelings,  hopes,  and  ambitions  of  one  who,  at  the  time 
of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  was  only  an  eighteen  year  old  boy. 

In  the  meantime,  I  went  on  helping  my  father  do  the  fall  work 
on  the  farm.  In  due  time  the  wheat  was  sowed,  the  corn  gathered, 
and  a  huge  stack  of  firewood  for  winter  cut  and  brought  in,  and 
piled  near  the  dwelling-house.  By  this  time  the  holiday  season  was 
approaching,  which  I  wanted  to  spend  at  home,  thinking,  maybe, 
it  might  be  the  last.  And  the  regiment  was  doing  nothing  but  re 
cruit,  and  drill  at  Camp  Carrollton,  and,  as  I  looked  at  it,  there  was 
no  special  need  to  hurry.  But  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day  soon 
came,  and  went,  and  one  evening  I  told  my  parents  I  intended  to 
go  to  Carrollton  the  next  day,  and  "maybe"  would  come  back  a 
soldier.  Early  next  morning,  which  was  Monday,  January  6,  1862, 
I  saddled  and  bridled  Bill,  the  little  black  mule,  and  struck  out. 
Carrollton  was  about  twenty  miles  from  our  home,  almost  due 
north,  and  the  road  ran  mainly  through  big  woods,  with  an  occa 
sional  farm  on  either  side  of  the  road.  It  is  likely  those  woods  are 
all  gone  now.  I  reached  the  camp  about  the  middle  of  the  after 
noon,  went  to  the  quarters  of  Reddish's  company,  found  Enoch 
Wallace,  and  told  him  I  had  come  to  enlist.  He  took  me  to  Capt. 
Reddish,  gave  me  a  short  introduction  to  him,  and  told  him  my 
business.  The  old  Captain  gave  me  a  hearty  greeting,  and  was.  so 
plain,  kind  and  natural  in  his  manner  and  talk,  that  I  took  a  liking 
to  him  at  once.  He  told  me  that  the  first  step  necessary  was  to  be 
examined  by  the  regimental  surgeon  as  to  my  physical  fitness,  so 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  15 

we  at  once  went  to  the  surgeon's  tent.    I  had  previously  heard  all 
sorts  of  stories  as  to  the  thoroughness  of  this  examination,  that 
sometimes  the  prospective  recruits  had  to  strip,  stark  naked,  and 
jump  about,  in  order  to  show  that  their  limbs  were  perfect.    But  I 
was  agreeably  disappointed  in  that  regard.     The  surgeon,  at  that 
time,  was  a  fat,  jolly  old  doctor  by  the  name  of  Leonidas  Clemmons. 
I  was  about  scared  to  death  when  the  Captain  presented  me  to  him, 
and  requested  him  to  examine  me.     I  reckon  the  good  old  doctor 
saw  I  was  frightened,  and  he  began  laughing  heartily  and  saying 
some  kind  things  about  my  general  appearance.    He  requested  me 
to  stand  up  straight,  then  gave  me  two  or  three  little  sort  of  "love 
taps"  on  the  chest,  turned  me  round,  ran  his  hands  over  my  shoul 
ders,  back,   and  limbs,   laughing  and  talking  all  the  time,   then 
whirled  me  to  the  front,  and  rendered  judgment  on  me  as  follows: 
"Ah,  Capt.  Reddish !    I  only  wish  you  had  a  hundred  such  fine  boys 
as  this  one!     He's  all  right,  and  good  for  the  service."     I  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  felt  much  relieved.     Then  we  went  to  the  adju 
tant's  tent,  there  I  signed  something,  and  was  duly  sworn  in.  Then 
to  the  quartermaster's  tent,  where  I  drew  my  clothing.    I  got  be 
hind,  a  big  bale  of  stuff,  took  off  my  citizen's  apparel  and  put  on 
my  soldier  clothes  then  and  there, — and  didn't  I  feel  proud!     The 
clothing  outfit  consisted  of  a  pair  of  light-blue  pantaloons,  similar 
colored  overcoat  with  a  cape  to  it,  dark  blue  jacket,  heavy  shoes  and 
woolen  socks,  an  ugly,  abominable  cocky  little  cap  patterned  after 
the  then  French  army  style,  gray  woolen  shirt,  and  other  ordinary 
under-clothing.     Was  also  given  a  knapsack,  but  I  think  I  didn't 
get  a  haversack  and  canteen  until  later.    Right  here  I  will  say  that 
the  regimental  records  give  the  date  of  my  enlistment  as  the  7th 
of  January,  which  is  wrong.    The  date  was  the  6th.    It  was  a  day 
I  did  not  forget,  and  never  shall.     How  the  authorities  happened  to 
get  the  date  wrong  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  a  matter  of   only   one 
day,  and  never  was  of  any  importance. 

It  was  the  custom  then  in  the  regiment  to  give  each  recruit 
when  he  enlisted  a  two-days  furlough,  but  I  deferred  asking  for 
mine  until  the  next  morning.  I  spent  that  afternoon  in  the  camp, 


16  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

and  the  night  at  the  quarters  of  my  company.  As  already  stated, 
the  camp  was  on  the  county  Fair  Grounds.  They  contained  forty 
acres,  and  were  thickly  studded  with  big  native  trees,  mainly  white 
and  black  oak  and  shag-bark  hickory.  The  grounds  were  sur 
rounded  by  an  inclosure  seven  or  eight  feet  high,  consisting  of 
thick,  native  timber  planks  with  the  lower  ends  driven  in  the 
ground,  and  the  upper  parts  firmly  nailed  to  cross-wise  stringers. 
There  was  only  one  opening,  which  was  at  the  main  gate  about  the 
center  of  the  north  side  of  the  grounds.  A  line  of  guards  was 
maintained  at  the  gate  and  all  round  the  inside  of  the  inclosure, 
with  the  beat  close  to  the  fence,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  men 
in  camp.  No  enlisted  man  could  go  out  except  on  a  pass  signed  by 
his  captain,  and  approved  by  the  colonel.  The  drilling  of  the  men 
was  conducted  principally  inside  the  grounds,  but  on  skirmish  drill 
we  went  outside,  in  order  to  have  room  enough.  The  quarters  or 
barracks  of  the  men  were,  for  each  company,  a  rather  long,  low 
structure,  crudely  built  of  native  lumber  and  covered  with  clap 
boards  and  a  top  dressing  of  straw,  containing  two  rows  of  bunks, 
one  above  and  one  below.  These  shacks  looked  like  a  Kansas  stable 
of  early  days, — but  they  were  abodes  of  comfort  and  luxury  com 
pared  to  what  we  frequently  had  later. 

Next  morning,  after  an  early  breakfast,  I  pulled  out  for  home, 
with  my  two-days  furlough  in  my  pocket.  I  was  accompanied  by 
John  Jobson,  one  of  Reddish's  company,  and  who  had  enlisted  about 
a  month  previous.  He  had  obtained  a  short  furlough  for  some 
purpose  or  other,  and  had  hired  a  horse  on  which  to  make  the  trip. 
Prior  to  his  enlistment  he  had  been  working  as  a  farm  hand  for 
Sam  Dougherty,  one  of  our  nearest  neighbors,  and  I  had  become 
well  acquainted  with  him.  He  was  about  twenty-five  years  old, 
of  English  birth,  a  fine,  sensible  young  fellow,  and  made  a  good 
soldier.  I  wrell  remember  our  high  spirits  on  this  journey  home. 
We  were  young,  glowing  with  health  and  overflowing  with  live 
liness  and  animation.  There  was  a  heavy  snow  on  the  ground,  but 
the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  air  was  keen  and  bracing.  Occasionally, 
when  we  would  strike  a  stretch  of  level  road,  we  would  loose  all  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  17 

buttons  of  our  overcoats  save  the  top  one,  put  the  gad  to  our  steeds, 
and  waving  our  caps,  with  our  long  coat  tails  streaming  in  the 
wind,  would  yell  like  Comanches,  and  "let  on"  that  we  were  mak 
ing  a  cavalry  charge.  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  believed  we  pre 
sented  a  most  terror-striking  appearance. 

Happy  is  man  that  to  him  the  future  is  a  sealed  book.  In  the 
summer  of  1863,  while  we  were  stationed  near  Vicksburg,  Jobson 
was  taken  seriously  ill,  and  was  put  on  a  transport  to  be  taken  to  a 
general  hospital  at  Mound  City,  Illinois.  He  died  en  route,  on  the 
boat,  and  was  hastily  buried  in  a  sand  bar  at  the  mouth  of  White 
River.  The  changing  currents  of  the  mighty  Mississippi  have 
long  since  swallowed  up  that  sand  bar,  and  with  it  all  that  may 
have  been  left  of  the  mortal  remains  of  poor  Jobson. 

I  reached  home  sometime  in  the  afternoon,  relieved  Bill  of  his 
equipments,  put  him  in  the  stable,  and  fed  him.  No  one  was  stir 
ring  about  outside,  and  I  walked  into  the  house  unannounced.  My 
mother  was  seated  in  an  old  rocking-chair,  engaged  in  sewing. 
She  looked  up,  saw  me  in  the  uniform  of  a  soldier,  and  she  knew 
what  that  meant.  Her  work  dropped  in  her  lap,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  the  tears  gushed  through  her  fingers  and 
she  trembled  in  her  chair  with  the  intensity  of  her  emotions. 
There  was  no  sobbing,  or  other  vocal  manifestation  of  feeling,  but 
her  silence  made  her  grief  seem  all  the  more  impressive.  I  was 
distressed,  and  didn't  know  what  to  say,  so  I  said  nothing,  and 
walked  out  into  the  kitchen,  thence  back  to  the  barn.  There  I  met 
father,  who  had  come  in  from  some  out-door  work.  He  looked  at 
me  gravely,  but  with  an  impassive  countenance,  and  merely  re 
marked,  "Well,  I  reckon  you've  done  right." 

Next  morning  everybody  seemed  more  cheerful,  and  I  had  much 
to  say  at  breakfast  about  things  at  Camp  Carrollton. 

On  the  expiration  of  my  furlough  I  promptly  reported  at  the 
camp  and  entered  on  my  duties  as  a  soldier.  The  absorbing  duty 
was  the  drill,  and  that  was  persistent,  and  consumed  the  most  of 
the  time.  I  knew  nothing  about  it  when  I  enlisted,  and  had  never 
seen  any  except  on  the  previous  Monday  afternoon.  The  system 


18  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

we  then  had  was  Hardee's  Infantry  Tactics.  It  was  simple,  and 
easily  learned.  The  main  things  required  were  promptness,  care, 
and  close  attention.  All  day  long,  somewhere  in  the  camp,  could 
be  heard  the  voice  of  some  officer,  calling,  "Left!  left!  left,  right, 
left!"  to  his  squad  or  company,  to  guide  them  in  the  cadence  of 
the  step.  We  were  drilled  at  Carrollton  in  the  "school  of  the  sol 
dier,"  "school  of  the  company,"  and  skirmish  drill,  with  dress  pa 
rade  at  sunset.  We  had  no  muskets,  and  did  not  receive  them  until 
we  went  to  Benton  Barracks,  at  St.  Louis.  I  do  not  remember  of 
our  having  any  battalion  drill  at  Camp  Carrollton.  The  big  trees 
in  the  fair  grounds  were  probably  too  thick  and  numerous  to  per 
mit  that.  Our  fare  consisted  of  light  bread,  coffee,  fresh  meat  at 
some  meals,  and  salt  meat  at  others,  Yankee  beans,  rice,  onions,  and 
Irish  and  sweet  potatoes,  with  stewed  dried  apples  occasionally  for 
supper.  The  salt  meat,  as  a  rule,  was  pickled  pork  and  fat  side 
meat,  which  latter  "table  comfort"  the  boys  called  "sow^belly." 
We  got  well  acquainted  with  that  before  the  war  was  over.  On  the 
grub  question  I  will  say  now  that  the  great  "stand-bys"  of  the 
Union  soldiers  during  the  war,  at  least  those  of  the  western  armies, 
were  coffee,  sow-belly,  Yankee  beans,  ajid  hard-tack.  It  took  us,  of 
course,  some  time  to  learn  how  to  cook  things  properly,  especially 
the  beans,  but  after  we  had  learned  how,  we  never  went  back  on 
the  above  named  old  friends.  But  the  death  of  many  a  poor  boy, 
especially  during  our  first  two  or  three  months  in  the  field,  is 
chargeable  to  the  bad  cooking  of  his  food. 

At  Carrollton  the  j oiliest  time  of  the  day  was  from  the  close  of 
dress  parade  until  taps  sounded  "Lights  out."  There  was  then  a 
good  deal  of  what  you  might  call  "prairie  dogging,"  that  is,  the 
boys  would  run  around  and  visit  at  the  quarters  of  other  companies. 
And  Oh,  how  they  would  sing!  All  sorts  of  patriotic  songs  were 
in  vogue  then,  and  what  was  lacking  in  tone  we  made  up  in  volume. 
The  battle  of  Mill  Springs,  in  Kentucky,  was  fought  on  January 
19,  1862,  resulting  in  a  Union  victory.  A  Confederate  general, 
Felix  K.  Zollicoffer,  was  killed  in  the  action.  He  had  been  a  mem 
ber  of  Congress  from  Tennessee,  and  was  a  man  of  prominence  in 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  19 

the  South.    A  song  soon  appeared  in  commemoration  of  this  battle. 
It  was  called  "The  Happy  Land  of  Canaan,"  and  I  now  remember 
only  one  stanza,  which  is  as  follows : 
"Old  Zolly's  gone, 
And  Secesh  will  have  to  mourn, 
For  they  thought  he  would  do  to  depend  on ; 
But  he  made  his  last  stand  ' 
On  the  rolling  Cumberland, 
And  was  sent  to  the  happy  land  of  Canaan." 
There  was  a  ringing,  rolling  chorus  to  each  verse,  of  course, 
and  which  was  not  at  all  germane  to  the  text,  and,  moreover,  as 
the  newspapers  sometimes  say,  is  "not  adapted  for  publication,"- 
so  it  will  be  omitted.    Well,  I  can  now  shut  my  eyes  and  lean  back 
in  my  chair  and  let  my  memory  revert  to  that  far  away  time,  and 
it  just  seems  to  me  that  I  can  see  and  hear  Nelse  Hegans,  of  Co.  C, 
singing  that  song  at  night  in  our  quarters  at  old  Camp  Carrollton. 
He  was  a  big,  strong  six-footer,  about  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
with  a  deep  bass  voice  that  sounded  when  singing  like  the  roll  of 
distant  thunder.     And  he  was  an  all-around  good  fellow.     Poor 
Nelse!    He  was  mortally  wounded  by  a  musket  ball  in  the  neck 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  first  day  at  Shiloh,  and  died    a    few 
days  thereafter. 

The  health  of  the  boys  while  at  Camp  Carrollton  was  fine. 
There  were  a  few  cases  of  measles,  but  as  I  remember,  none  were 
fatal.  Once  I  caught  a  bad  cold,  but  I  treated  it  myself  with  a 
backwoods  remedy  and  never  thought  of  going  to  the  surgeon 
about  it.  I  took  some  of  the  bark  of  a  hickory  tree  that  stood  near 
our  quarters,  and  made  about  a  quart  of  strong  hickory-bark  tea. 
I  drank  it  hot,  and  all  at  once,  just  before  turning  in  for  the  night. 
It  was  green  in  color,  and  intensely  bitter,  but  it  cured  the  cold. 

A  few  weeks  after  my  enlistment,  I  was  appointed  to  the  posi 
tion  of  corporal.  There  are,  or  were  in  my  time,  eight  corporals  in 
an  infantry  company,  each  designated  by  a  number,  in  numerical 
order.  I  was  fifth.  I  owed  this  appointment  to  the  friendship 
and  influence  of  Enoch  Wallace,  and  this  was  only  one  of  the  count- 


20  THE  STORY  OF^A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

less  acts  of  kindness  that  he  rendered  me  during  my  term  of  serv 
ice.  I  just  cannot  tell  you  how  proud  I  was  over  this  modest  mili 
tary  office.  I  am  telling  you  the  truth  when  I  say  that  I  felt  more 
pride  and  pleasure  in  being  a  "Corporal  of  Co.  D"  than  I  ever  did 
later  in  the  possession  of  any  other  office,  either  military  or  civil. 
The  boys  framed  up  a  story  on  me,  to  the  effect  that  soon  after  my 
appointment  I  was  seen  in  the  rear  of  the  company  quarters, 
stooping  over  an  empty  barrel,  with  my  head  projected  into  it  as 
far  as  possible,  and  exclaiming  in  a  deep,  guttural  tone,  "COR 
PORAL  STILLWELL!"  "CORPORAL  STILLWELL!"  This  was 
being  done,  so  the  boys  said,  in  order  that  I  might  personally  en 
joy  the  sound.  In  order  to  be  strictly  accurate,  I  will  state  that, 
although  the  apointment  was  made  while  we  were  at  Carrollton, 
my  official  warrant  was  not  issued  until  our  arrival  at  Benton 
Barracks. 

The  only  thing  recalled  now  that  was  sort  of  disagreeable  at 
Camp  Carrollton  was  the  utter  absence  of  privacy.  Even  when  off 
duty,  one  couldn't  get  away  by  himself,  and  sit  down  in  peace  and 
quiet  anywhere.  And  as  for  slipping  off  into  some  corner  and  try 
ing  to  read,  alone,  a  book  or  paper,  the  thing  was  impossible.  To 
use  a  modern  expression,  there  was  always  "something  doing/' 
Many  a  time  after  supper,  on  very  cold  nights,  when  the  boys 
would  all  be  in  the  barracks,  singing  or  cutting  up,  I  would  sneak 
out  and  walk  around  under  the  big  trees,  with  the  snow  crackling 
under  my  feet,  for  no  other  purpose  whatever  than  just  to  be 
alone  a  while.  But  that  condition  of  things  changed  for  the  better 
after  we  got  down  South,  and  were  no  longer  cooped  up  in  a  forty 
acre  lot. 

General  Grant  gained  his  great  victory  at  Fort  Donelson  on 
February  16,  1862,  and  the  news  reached  us  a  few  days  later.  The 
boys  talked  about  it  with  feelings  of  mingled  exultation,  — and 
mortification.  Exultation,  of  course,  over  the  "glorious  victory," 
but  mortification  in  regard  to  its  effects  and  consequences  on  our 
future  military  career.  We  all  thought,  from  the  officers  down, 
that  now  the  war  would  end,  that  we  would  see  no  actual  service, 


THE  STORY   OF   A   COMMON   SOLDIER.  21 

and  never  fire  a  shot.  That  we  would  be  discharged,  and  go  home 
just  little  "trundle-bed  soldiers,"  and  have  to  sit  around  and  hear 
otherssure-enough  warriors  tell  the  stories  of  actual  war  and  fight 
ing.  If  we  only  had  known,  we  were  borrowing  unnecessary 
trouble, — as  we  found  out  later. 


22  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON   SOLDIER, 


CHAPTER  II. 

BENTON  BARRACKS.— ST.  LOUIS,  MARCH,  1862. 

Sometime  during  the  last  of  February,  the  welcome  news  was 
given  out  from  regimental  headquarters  that  we  were  soon  to 
leave  Camp  Carrollton.  Our  first  objective  point  was  to  be  St. 
Louis,  Mo.,  and  what  next  nobody  knew.  Definite  orders  for  the 
movement  were  issued  later,  and  it  then  occurred  to  us  that  possi 
bly  all  our  recent  apprehensions  about  not  seeing  any  fighting 
were  somewhat  premature. 

Right  here  I  will  say  that  in  the  brief  sketch  of  the  regiment 
published  in  the  reports  of  the  Adjutant-General  of  the  State  of 
Illinois,  the  date  of  our  leaving  Carrollton  is  given  as  February  21, 
which  is  wrong.  That  date  is  either  a  mistake  of  the  person  who 
wrote  that  part  of  the  sketch,  or  a  typographical  error.  I  have  in 
my  possession,  and  now  lying  before  me,  a  letter  I  wrote  to  my 
father  from  Benton  Barracks,  of  date  March  2,  1862,  in  which  the 
date  of  our  arrival  at  St.  Louis  is  given  as  February  28th.  And 
I  well  know  that  we  were  only  two  days  on  the  trip.  And  besides 
the  date  given  in  my  letter,  I  distinctly  remember  several  unwrit 
ten  facts  and  circumstances  that  satisfy  me  beyond  any  doubt,  that 
the  day  we  left  Carrollton  was  February  27,  1862.  Early  in  the 
morning  of  that  day,  the  regiment  filed  out  at  the  big  gate,  and 
marched  south  on  the  dirt  road.  Good-bye  to  old  Camp  Carrollton ! 
Many  of  the  boys  never  saw  it  again,  and  I  never  have  seen  it 
since  but  once,  which  was  in  the  summer  of  1894.  I  was  back  then 
in  Jersey  county,  on  a  sort  of  a  visit,  and  was  taken  with  a  desire 
to  run  up  to  Carrollton  and  look  at  the  old  camp.  There  was  then 
a  railroad  constructed  during  the  last  years  of  the  war,  (or  about 
that  time) ,  running  south  from  the  town,  and  less  than  an  hour's 
ride  from  Jerseyville,  where  I  was  stopping,  so  I  got  on  a  morning 
train,  and,  like  Jonah  when  moved  to  go  to  Tarshish,  "paid  the 


(Mother  of  Leander  Stillwell.) 


THE   STORY   OF   A   COMMON   SOLDIER.  23 

fare  and  went."  I  found  the  old  camp  still  being  used  as  a  county 
fair  ground,  and  the  same  big  trees,  or  the  most  of  them,  were 
there  yet,  and  looked  about  as  they  did  thirty-two  years  before. 
Of  course,  every  vestige  of  our  old  barracks  was  gone.  I  stood 
around  and  looked  at  things  awhile, — and  thought — then  left,  and 
have  never  been  there  again. 

The  regiment  arrived  at  Jerseyville  about  sunset.  The  word 
had  gone  out,  all  through  the  country,  that  Fry's  regiment  was 
leaving  for  the  front,  and  the  country  people  had  come  to  town, 
from  miles  around,  in  their  farm  wagons,  to  have  one  last  look, 
and  bid  us  good-bye.  The  regiment,  in  column  by  companies,  com 
pany  distance,  marched  up  the  main  street  running  south,  and  on 
reaching  the  center  of  the  little  town,  we  wheeled  into  line,  dress 
ed  on  the  colors,  and  stood  at  attention.  The  sidewalks  were 
thronged  with  the  country  people  all  intently  scanning  the  lines, 
each  little  family  group  anxiously  looking  for  their  boy,  brother, 
husband  or  father,  as  the  case  may  have  been.  (But  right  here  it 
will  be  said  that  the  overwhelming  majority  of  the  enlisted  men  of 
the  regiment,  and  the  most  of  the  line  officers,  were  unmarried.) 
I  was  satisfied  that  my  parents  were  somewhere  among  the  crowd 
of  spectators,  for  I  had  specially  written  them  as  to  when  we 
would  pass  through  Jerseyville.  I  was  in  the  front  rank,  and  kept 
my  face  rigidly  fixed  to  the  front,  but  glanced  as  best  I  could  up 
and  down  the  sidewalk,  trying  to  locate  father  and  mother.  Sud 
denly  I  saw  them,  as  they  struggled  to  the  edge  of  the  walk,  not 
more  than  ten  feet  from  me.  I  had  been  somewhat  dreading  the 
meeting,  and  the  parting  that  was  to  come.  I  remembered  the 
emotion  of  my  mother  when  she  first  saw  me  in  my  uniform,  and  I 
feared  that  now  she  might  break  down  altogether.  But  there  she 
stood,  her  eyes  fixed  on  me  intently,  with  a  proud  and  happy  smile 
on  her  face!  You  see,  we  were  a  magnificent-looking  body  of 
young  fellows,  somewhere  between  800  and  900  strong.  Our  uni 
forms  were  clean  and  comparatively  new.  and  our  faces  were  rud 
dy  and  glowing  with  health.  Besides  the  regimental  colors,  each 
company,  at  that  time,  carried  a  small  flag,  which  were  all  fluttering 


24  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

in  the  breeze,  and  our  regimental  band  was  playing  patriotic  tunes 
at  its  best.  I  reckon  it  was  a  somewhat  inspiring  sight  to  country 
people  like  those  who,  with  possibly  very  few  exceptions,  had 
never  seen  anything  like  that  before.  Anyhow,  my  mother  was 
evidently  content  and  glad  to  see  me  there,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  flag,  and  going  forth  to  fight  for  the  old  Union,  instead  of  then 
being  sneaking  around  at  home,  like  some  great  hulking  boys  in 
our  neighborhood  who  were  of  Copperhead  sympathies  and  pa 
rentage. 

Arrangements  had  been  (made  to  quarter  the  regiment  that 
night  in  different  public  buildings  in  the  town,  and  the  companies 
were  soon  marched  to  their  respective  places.  Co.  D  had  been  as 
signed  to  the  Baptist  church,  and  there  my  parents  and  I  met,  and 
had  our  final  interview.  They  were  nine  miles  from  home,  in  the 
old  farm  wagon,  the  roads  (in  the  main)  were  through  dense  woods, 
and  across  ridges  and  hollows,  the  short  winter  day  was  drawing 
to  a  close  and  night  approaching,  so  our  farewell  talk  was  neces 
sarily  brief.  Our  parting  was  simple  and  unaffected,  without  any 
display  of  emotion  by  anybody.  But  mother's  eyes  looked  un 
usually  bright,  and  she  didn't  linger  after  she  had  said,  "Good-bye 
Leander."  As  for  my  father, — he  was  an  old  North  Carolinian, 
born  and  reared  among  the  Cherokee  Indians  at  the  base  of  the 
Great  Smoky  Mountains,  and  with  him,  and  all  other  men  of  his 
type,  any  yielding  to  "womanish"  feelings  was  looked  on  as  almost 
disgraceful.  His  farewell  words  were  few,  and  concise,  and  spok 
en  in  his  ordinary  tone  and  manner,  he  then  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  was  gone. 

Mother  left  with  me  a  baked  chicken,  the  same  being  a  big, 
fat  hen  full  of  stuffing,  rich  in  sage  and  onions ;  also  some  mince  pie, 
old  time  doughnuts,  and  cucumber  pickles.  I  shared  it  all  with  Bill 
Banfield  (my  chum),  and  we  had  plenty  for  supper  and  break 
fast  the  next  day,  with  the  drum-sticks  and  some  other  outlying 
portions  of  the  chicken  for  dinner. 

Early  the  next  morning  we  pulled  out  for  Alton,  on  the  Mis 
sissippi  River.  But  we  did  not  have  to  march  much  that  day.  The 


THE  STORY   OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  25 

country  people  around  and  near  Jerseyville  turned  out  in  force  with 
their  farm  wagons,  and  insisted  on  hauling  us  to  Alton,  and  their 
invitations  were  accepted  with  pleasure.  A  few  miles  north  of 
Alton  we  passed  what  was  in  those  days  (and  may  be  yet)  a  popu 
lar  and  celebrated  school  for  girls,  called  the  "Monticello  Female 
Seminary."  The  girls  had  heard  of  our  coining,  and  were  all  out 
by  the  side  of  the  road,  a  hundred  or  more,  with  red,  white  and 
blue  ribbons  in  their  hair  and  otherwise  on  their  persons.  They 
waved  white  handkerchiefs  and  little  flags  at  us,  and  looked  their 
sweetest.  And  didn't  we  cheer  them !  Well,  I  should  say  so.  We 
stood  up  in  the  wagons,  and  swung  our  caps,  and  just  whooped  and 
hurrahed  as  long  as  those  girls  were  in  sight.  We  always  treas 
ured  this  incident  as  a  bright,  precious  link  in  the  chain  of  mem 
ory,  for  it  was  the  last  public  manifestation,  of  this  nature,  of 
good-will  and  patriotism  from  girls  and  women  that  was  given  the 
regiment  until  we  struck  the  soil  of  the  State  of  Indiana,  on  our 
return  home  some  months  after  the  close  of  the  war. 

We  arrived  at  Alton  about  sundown,  and  at  once  marched 
aboard  the  big  side-wheel  steamboat,  "City  of  Alton,"  which  was 
lying  at  the  wharf  waiting  for  us,  and  guards  were  promptly  sta 
tioned  to  prevent  the  men  leaving  the  boat.  But  "some  one  had 
blundered,"  and  no  rations  had  been  provided  for  our  supper.  We 
were  good  and  hungry,  too,  for  our  dinner,  at  least  that  of  Co.  D, 
consisted  only  of  the  left-over  scraps  of  breakfast.  But  the  offi 
cers  got  busy  and  went  up  town  and  bought,  with  their  own  money, 
something  for  us  to  eat.  My  company  was  furnished  a  barrel  of 
oyster  crackers,  called  in  those  days  "butter  crackers,"  and  our 
drink  was  river  water. 

The  novelty  and  excitement  of  the  last  two  days  had  left  me 
nerveless  and  tired  out,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  feeling  the  first 
touch  of  "home-sickness."  So,  after  supper  I  went  up  on  the 
hurricane  deck  of  the  boat,  spread  my  blanket  on  the  floor,  and 
with  my  knapsack  for  a  pillow,  laid  down  and  soon  fell  asleep. 
The  boat  did  not  leave  Alton  until  after  dark,  and  when  it  pulled 
out,  the  scream  of  the  whistle,  the  dashing  of  the  paddles,  and 


26  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON   SOLDIER. 

the  throbbing  and  crash  of  the  engines,  aroused  me  from  my  slum 
ber.  I  sat  up  and  looked  around  and  watched  the  lights  of  Alton 
as  they  twinkled  and  glimmered  in  the  darkness,  until  they  were 
lost  to  sight  by  a  bend  in  the  river.  Then  I  laid  down  and  went  to 
sleep  again,  and  did  not  wake  until  daylight  the  next  morning,  and 
found  that  our  boat  was  moored  to  the  wharf  at  St.  Louis.  We 
soon  debarked,  and  marched  out  to  Benton  Barracks,  which  were 
clear  out  of  town  and  beyond  the  suburbs.  The  shape  of  Benton 
Barracks,  as  I  now  remember,  was  a  big  oblong  square.  The  bar 
racks  themselves  consisted  of  a  continuous  connected  row  of  low 
frame  buildings,  the  quarters  of  each  company  being  separated 
from  the  others  by  frame  partitions,  and  provided  with  two  rows 
of  bunks  around  the  sides  and  ends.  At  the  rear  of  the  quarters 
of  each  company  was  the  company  kitchen.  It  was  a  detached, 
separate  frame  structure,  and  amply  provided  with  accommoda 
tions  for  cooking,  including  a  brick  furnace  with  openings  for 
camp  kettles,  pots,  boilers  and  the  like.  Both  barracks  and 
kitchen  were  comfortable  and  convenient,  and  greatly  superior  to 
our  home-made  shacks  at  Carrollton.  The  barracks  inclosed  a 
good  sized  tract  of  land,  but  its  extent  I  do  not  now  remember. 
This  space  was  used  for  drilling  and  parades,  and  was  almost  en 
tirely  destitute  of  trees.  The  commander  of  the  post,  at  that  time, 
was  Colonel  Benjamin  L.  E.  Bonneville,  an  old  regular  army  officer, 
and  who  had  been<  a  noted  western  explorer  in  his  younger  days. 
I  frequently  saw  him  riding  about  the  grounds.  He  was  a  little 
dried-up  old  Frenchman,  and  had  no  military  look  about  him  what 
ever.  All  the  same,  he  was  a  man  who  had,  as  a  soldier,  done  long 
and  faithful  service  for  his  adopted  country.  Should  you  ever 
want  to  post  up  on  him  (if  you  have  not  already  done  so),  read 
"Adventures  of  Captain,  Bonneville,  U.  S.  A.,  in  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  and  the  Far  West,"  by  Washington  Irving.  You  will  find  it 
deeply  interesting. 

We  remained  at  Benton  Barracks  about  four  weeks.  Life 
there  was  monotonous  and  void  of  any  special  interest.  We 
drilled  but  little,  as  I  now  remember,  the  reason  for  that  being  it 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  27 

rained  the  most  of  the  time  we  were  there  and  the  drill  grounds 
were  oceans  of  mud.     The  drainage  was  wretched,  and  the  most 
of  the  rain  that  fell  stayed  on  the  surface  until  the  ground  soaked 
it  up.     And  how  it  did  rain  at  Benton  Barracks  in  March,  1862! 
While  there,  I  found  in  some  recently  vacated  quarters  an  old 
tattered,  paper  bound  copy  of  Dickens'  "Bleak  House,"  and  on 
those  rainy  days  I  would  climb  up  in  my  bunk    (an  upper  one), 
and  lie  there  and  read  that  book.     Some  of  the  aristocratic  charac 
ters  mentioned  therein  had  a  country  residence  called  "Chesney 
Wold,"  where  it  seemed    it   always    rained.     To    quote    (in    sub 
stance)  from  the  book,  "The  rain  was  ever  falling,  drip,  drip,  drip, 
by  day  and  night,"  at  "the  place  in  Lincolnshire."     'Twas  even  so 
at  Benton  Barracks.     When  weary  of  reading,  I  would  turn  and 
look  a  while  through  the  little  window  at  the  side  of  my  bunk  that 
gave  a  view  of  the  most  of  the  square  which  the  barracks  in 
closed.     The  surface  of  the  earth  was  just  a  quagmire  of  mud  and 
water,  and  nothing  stirring  abroad  could  be  seen  save  occasionally 
a  mounted  orderly,  splashing  at  a  gallop  across  the  grounds.  Since 
then  I  have  frequently  read  "Bleak  House,"  and  whenever  that 
chapter  is  reached  depicting  the  rainy  weather  at  the  Dedlock 
place,  I  can  again  see,  and  smell,  and  hear,  and  feel,  those  gloomy 
wearisome  conditions  at  Benton  Barracks  of  over  half  a  century 
ago.     I  have  read,  somewhere  in  Gen.  Sherman's  Memoirs,  a  state 
ment  in  substance  to  the  effect  that  rain  in  camp  has  a  depressing 
effect  upon  soldiers,  but  is  enlivening  to  them  on  a  march.    From 
personal  experience  I  know  that  observation  to  be  true.    Many  a 
time  while  on  a  march  we  would  be  caught  in  heavy  rains.     The 
dirt  road  would  soon  be  worked  into  a  loblolly  of  sticky  yellow  mud. 
Thereupon  we  would  take  off  our  shoes  and  socks,  tie  them  to  the 
barrel  of  our  muskets  a  little  below  the  muzzle  and  just  above  the 
end  of  the  stock,  poise  the  piece  on  the  hammer  on  either  shoulder, 
stock  uppermost,  and  roll  up  our  breeches  to  the  knees.     Then  like 
Tarn  O'Shanter,  we  "skelpit  on  through  dub  and  mire,  despising 
wind,  and  rain,  and  fire,"  and  singing  "John  Brown's  Body,"  or 
whatever  else  came  handy.     But  rainy  days  in    camp,    especially 


28  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

such  as  we  had  at  Benton  Barracks,  engender  feelings  of  gloom 
and  dejection  that  have  to  be  experienced  in  order  to  be  realized. 
They  are  just  too  wretched  for  any  adequate  description. 

One  day  while  strolling  around  the  grounds  sight  seeing,  I  fell 
in  with  a  soldier  who  said  he  belonged  to  the  14th  Wisconsin  Infan 
try.  He  was  some  years  older  than  me,  but  was  quite  sociable,  and 
seemed  to  be  a  sensible,  intelligent  fellow.  He  was  full  of  talk 
about  his  regiment, — said  they  were  nearly  all  young  men,  big  stal 
wart  lumbermen  from  the  pine  woods  of  Wisconsin,  and  urged  me 
to  come  around  some  evening  when  they  were  on  dress  parade,  and 
look  at  them.  I  had  found  out  by  this  time  that  almost  every  sol 
dier  would  brag  about  his  regiment,  so  allowance  was  made  for 
what  he  said.  But  he  excited  my  curiosity  to  see  those  Wisconsin 
boys,  so  one  evening  when  I  was  at  liberty,  I  did  go  and  view  them 
while  they  were  on  dress  parade,  and  found  that  the  soldier  had  not 
exaggerated.  They  were  great,  tall  fellows,  broad  across  the 
shoulders  and  chest,  with  big  limbs.  Altogether,  they  simply  were, 
from  a  physical  standpoint,  the  finest  looking  soldiers  I  ever  saw 
during  my  entire  term  of  service.  I  speak  now  of  this  incident  and 
of  these  men,  for  the  reason  that  later  I  may  say  something  more 
about  this  14th  Wisconsin. 

While  at  Benton  Barracks  we  were  given  our  regimental  num 
ber, — Sixty-first — and  thenceforth  the  regiment  was  known  and 
designated  as  the  Sixty-first  Illinois  Infantry.  We  also  drew  our 
guns.  We  were  furnished  with  the  Austrian  rifle  musket.  It  was 
of  medium  length,  with  a  light  brown  walnut  stock, — and  was  a 
wicked  shooter.  At  that  time  the  most  of  the  western  troops  were 
armed  with  foreign-made  muskets,  imported  from  Europe.  Many 
regiments  had  old  Belgian  muskets,  a  heavy,  cumbersome  piece, 
and  awkward  and  unsatisfactory  every  way.  We  were  glad  to  get 
the  Austrians,  and  were  quite  proud  of  them.  We  used  these  until 
June,  1863,  when  we  turned  them  in  and  drew  in  lieu  thereof  the 
Springfield  rifle  musket  of  the  model  of  1863.  It  was  not  as 
heavy  as  the  Austrian,  was  neater  looking,  and  a  very  efficient 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  29 

firearm.    No  further  change  was  made,  and  we  carried  the  Spring 
field  thenceforward  until  we  were  mustered  out. 

It  was  also  here  at  Benton  Barracks  that  the  mustering  of  the 
regiment  into  the  service  of  the  United  States  was  completed.  Ten 
companies,  at  that  time,  constituted  a  regiment  of  infantry,  but 
ours  had  only  nine.  We  lacked  Company  K,  and  it  was  not  re 
cruited,  and  did  not  join  the  regiment  until  in  March,  1864.  On 
account  of  our  not  having  a  full  regiment,  Col.  Fry  (as  we  always 
called  him)  was  commissioned  as  Lieutenant  Colonel  only,  which 
was  his  rank  all  the  time  he  was  with  us,  and  Capt.  Simon  P.  Ohr, 
of  Co.  A,  was  commissioned  Major.  Owing  to  our  lack  of  one  com 
pany,  and  the  further  fact  that  when  that  company  did  join  us  the 
other  companies  had  become  much  depleted  in  numbers,  the  regi 
ment  therefore  never  had  an  officer  of  the  full  rank  of  Colonel 
until  the  summer  of  1865,  when  it  became  entitled  to  one  under  the 
circumstances  which  will  be  stated  further  on. 


30  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  III. 


OFF  FOR  THE  SEAT  OF  WAR.— THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH.— 
MARCH  AND  APRIL,  1862. 

On  March  25th  we  left  Benton  Barracks  for  the  front.  We 
marched  through  St.  Louis  and  onto  the  steamboat  that  day,  but 
from  some  cause  I  never  knew,  the  boat  did  not  leave  the  wharf 
until  about  dark  the  next  evening.  My  company  was  quartered  on 
the  hurricane  deck  of  the  boat.  Soon  after  the  boat  started  down 
the  river  an  incident  befell  me  that  looks  somewhat  comical  now, 
but  at  that  time  it  was  to  me  a  serious  matter,  and  one  that  trou 
bled  my  conscience  a  good  deal.  I  had  piled  my  knapsack,  with  the 
blanket  strapped  on  the  outside,  and  my  other  stuff,  at  the  foot 
of  the  gun  stack  which  included  my  musket.  Suddenly  I  discov 
ered,  to  my  great  consternation,  that  my  blanket  was  gone!  Yes, 
my  lords  and  gentlemen,  some  "false  Scot"  had  deliberately  and 
feloniously  appropriated  my  indispensable  equipment  for  a  night's 
repose.  And  a  long,  raw  March  night  was  coming  on,  and  the 
damp  and  chilly  air  was  rising,  like  a  fog,  from  the  cold  surface  of 
the  river.  All  signs,  too,  portended  a  rainy  night.  The  thunder 
was  muttering  off  in  the  southwest,  intermittent  flashes  of  light 
ning  lit  up  the  sky,  and  scattering  drops  of  rain  were  even  then 
beginning  to  patter  on  the  hurricane  deck  and  ripple  the  bosom  of 
the  stream.  What  should  I  do?  I  must  have  a  blanket,  that  was 
certain.  But  all  my  life  the  belief  had  been  instilled  into  me  that 
stealing  was  well-nigh  the  most  disgraceful  of  all  crimes,  and  that 
a  thief  was  a  most  odious  and  contemptible  wretch.  Moreover,  one 
pf  the  ten  commandments  "pintedly"  declared.  "Thou  shalt  not 
steal."  But  something  had  to  be  done,  and  speedily.  At  last  it  oc 
curred  to  me  that  being  a  soldier,  and  belonging  for  the  time  be 
ing  to  Uncle  Sam,  I  was  a  species  of  government  property,  which 


THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  31 

it  was  my  duty  to  protect  at  all  hazards.  That  settled  the  question, 
and  conscience  and  honesty  withdrew.  Without  going  into  the 
demoralizing  details,  suffice  it  to  say  that  I  stole  a  blanket  from 
some  hapless  victim  belonging  to  another  company,  and  thus  safe 
guarded  the  health  and  military  efficiency  of  a  chattel  of  the  Na 
tion.  How  the  other  fellow  got  along,  I  don't  know.  I  made  no 
impertinent  inquiries,  and,  during  the  day  time,  indefinitely  there 
after,  kept  that  blanket  in  my  knapsack,  carefully  concealed  fyom 
prying  eyes.  But  it  will  be  recorded  here  that  this  was  the  only 
act  of  downright  larceny  that  I  committed  during  my  entire  term 
of  service,  except  the  gobbling  of  a  couple  of  onions,  which  maybe 
I'll  mention  later.  Of  course  I  helped  myself  many  times,  while  on 
the  march,  or  on  picket,  to  roasting  ears,  sweet  potatoes,  apples, 
and  the  like,  but  that  came  under  the  head  of  legitimate  foraging, 
and  was  sanctioned  by  the  military  authorities. 

The  night  we  left  St.  Louis  I  had  my  first  impressive  object 
lesson  showing  the  difference  between  the  conditions  of  the  com 
missioned  officers  and  the  enlisted  men.  I  had  spread  my  blanket 
at  the  base  of  the  little  structure  called  the  "Texas,"  on  which  the 
pilot  house  stands.  All  around  the  bottom  of  the  'Texas"  was  a  row 
of  small  window  lights  that  commanded  a  view  of  the  interior  of 
the  boat's  cabin  below,  and  I  only  had  to  turn  my  head  and  look  in 
and  down,  to  see  what  was  passing.  The  officers  were  seated  in 
cushioned  chairs,  or  sauntering  around  over  the  carpeted  and 
brilliantly  lighted  room,  while  their  supper  was  being  prepared. 
Colored  waiters  dressed  in  white  uniforms  were  bringing  in  the 
eatables,  and  when  all  was  ready,  a  gong  was  sounded  and  the  of 
ficers  seated  themselves  at  the  table.  And  just  look  at  the  good 
things  they  had  to  eat!  Fried  ham  and  beefsteak,  hot  biscuits, 
butter,  molasses,  big  boiled  Irish  potatoes  steaming  hot, 
fragrant  coffee  served  with  cream,  in  cups  and  saucers,  and  some 
minor  goodies  in  the  shape  of  preserves  and  the  like.  And  how 
savory  those  good  things  smelled! — for  I  was  where  I  could  get 
the  benefit  of  that.  And  there  were  the  officers,  in  the  warm, 
lighted  cabin,  seated  at  a  table,  with  nigger  waiters  to  serve  them, 


32  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

feasting  on  that  splendid  fare !  Why,  it  was  the  very  incarnation 
of  bodily  comfort  and  enjoyment!  And,  when  the  officers  should 
be  ready  to  retire  for  the  night,  warm  and  cozy  berths  awaited 
them,  where  they  would  stretch  their  limbs  on  downy  quilts  and 
mattresses,  utterly  oblivious  to  the  wet  and  chill  on  the  outside. 
Then  I  turned  my  head  and  took  in  my  surroundings!  A  black, 
cold  night,  cinders  and  soot  drifting  on  us  from  the  smoke  stacks, 
and  a  drizzling  rain  pattering  down.  And  my  supper  had  con 
sisted  of  hardtack  and  raw  sow-belly,  with  river  water  for  a  bev 
erage,  of  the  vintage,  say,  of  1541.  And  to  aggravate  the  situation 
generally,  I  was  lying  on  a  blanket  which  a  military  necessity  had 
compelled  me  to  steal.  But  I  reflected  that  we  couldn't  all  be  of 
ficers, — there  had  to  be  somebody  to  do  the  actual  trigger-pulling. 
And  I  further  consoled  myself  with  the  thought  that  while  the  of 
ficers  had  more  privileges  than  the  common  soldiers,  they  likewise 
had  more  responsibilities,  and  had  to  worry  their  brains  about 
many  things  that  didn't  bother  us  a  particle.  So  I  smothered  all 
envious  feelings  as  best  I  could,  and  wrapping  myself  up  good  in 
my  blanket,  went  to  sleep,  and  all  night  long  slept  the  unbroken, 
dreamless  sleep  of  youth  and  health. 

The  weather  cleared  up  that  night,  and  the  next  day  was  fine, 
and  we  all  felt  in  better  spirits.  Our  surroundings  were  new  and 
strange,  and  we  were  thrilling  with  excitement  and  bright  hopes 
of  the  future.  The  great  majority  of  us  were  simple  country  boys, 
who  had  so  far  passed  our  lives  in  a  narrow  circle  in  the  back 
woods.  As  for  myself,  before  enlisting  in  the  army  I  had  never 
been  more  than  fifty  miles  from  home,  had  not  traveled  any  on  a 
steamboat,  and  my  few  short  railroad  trips  did  not  amount,  in  the 
aggregate,  to  more  than  about  seventy-five  miles,  back  and  forth. 
But  now  the  contracted  horizon  of  the  "Whippoorwill  Ridges"  ad 
jacent  to  the  old  home  had  suddenly  expanded,  and  a  great  big 
wonderful  world  was  unfolding  to  my  view.  And  there  was  the 
daring,  heroic  life  on  which  we  were  entering!  No  individual  boy 
expected  that  he  would  be  killed,  or  meet  with  any  other  adverse 
fate.  Others  might,  and  doubtless  would,  but  he  would  come  out 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  33 

safe  and  sound,  and  return  home  at  the  end  of  a  victorious  war,  a 
military  hero,  and  as  such  would  be  looked  up  to,  and  admired  and 
reverenced,  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  At  any  rate,  such  were  my 
thoughts,  and  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred  of  the  other  boys  thought  the  same. 

On  the  afternoon,  of  this  day  (March  27th)  we  arrived  at 
Cairo,  rounded  in  at  the  wharf,  and  remained  a  short  time.  The 
town  fronted  on  the  Ohio  river,  which  was  high  at  the  time,  as  also 
was  the  Mississippi.  The  appearance  of  Cairo  was  wretched. 
Levees  had  been  constructed  to  protect  it  from  high  water,  but 
notwithstanding  the  streets  and  the  grounds  generally  were  just  a 
foul,  stagnant  swamp.  Engines  were  at  work  pumping  the  sur 
face  water  into  the  river  through  pipes  in  the  levee;  otherwise  I 
reckon  everybody  would  have  been  drowned  out.  Charles  Dickens 
saw  this  locality  in  the  spring  of  1842  when  on  a  visit  to  America, 
and  it  figures  in  "Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  under  the  name  of  "Eden." 
I  never  read  that  book  until  after  the  close  of  the  war,  but  have 
several  times  since,  and  will  say  that  if  the  Eden  of  1842  looked 
anything  like  the  Cairo  of  twenty  years  later,  his  description 
thereof  was  fully  warranted. 

Our  boat  had  hardly  got  moored  to  the  wharf  before  the  word 
went  round  that  some  Confederate  prisoners  were  on  the  transport 
on  our  right,  and  we  forthwith  rushed  to  that  side  to  get  our  first 
look  at  the  "Secesh,"  as  we  then  called  them.  It  was  only  a  small 
batch,  about  a  hundred  or  so.  They  were  under  guard,  and  on  the 
after  part  of  the  lower  deck,  along  the  sides  and  the  stern  of  the 
boat.  We  ascertained  that  they  were  about  the  last  installment  of 
the  Fort  Donelson  prisoners,  and  were  being  shipped  to  a  northern 
military  prison.  Naturally,  we  scanned  them  with  great  curiosity, 
and  the  boys  soon  began  to  joke  and  chaff  them  in  a  perfectly  good 
natured  way.  They  took  this  silently,  with  no  other  manifestation 
than  an  occasional  dry  grin.  But  finally,  a  rather  good  looking 
young  fellow  cocked  his  eyes  toward  us  and  in  a  soft,  drawling  tone 
called  out,  "You-all  will  sing  a  different  tune  by  next  summah." 
Our  boys  responded  to  this  with  bursts  of  laughter  and  some  de- 


34  THE   STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

risive  whoops;  but  later  we  found  out  that  the  young  Confederate 
soldier  was  a  true  prophet. 

Our  halt  at  Cairo  was  brief;  the  boat  soon  cast  off  and  pro 
ceeded  up  the  Ohio  to  the  mouth  of  the  Tennessee,  and  from  thence 
up  that  river.  Some  time  the  next  day  we  passed  Fort  Henry. 
We  had  read  of  its  capture  the  month  previous  by  the  joint  op 
erations  of  our  army  and  navy,  and  were  all  curious  to  see  this 
Confederate  stronghold,  where  a  mere  handful  of  men  had  put  up 
such  a  plucky  fight.  My  ideas  of  forts  at  that  time  had  all  been 
drawn  from  pictures  in  books  which  depicted  old-time  fortresses, 
and  from  descriptions  in  Scott's  "Marmion"  of  ancient  feudal 
castles  like  "Tantallon  strong,"  and  the  like.  And  when  we  ap 
proached  Fort  Henry  I  fully  expected  to  see  some  grand,  imposing 
structure  with  "battled  towers,"  "donjon  keep,"  "portcullis," 
'drawbridges,"  and  what  not,  and  perhaps  some  officer  of  high 
rank  with  a  drawn  sword,  strutting  about  on  the  ramparts  and 
occasionally  shouting,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "What,  ward 
er,  ho!"  or  words  to  that  effect.  But,  to  my  utter  amazement 
and  disgust,  when  we  steamed  up  opposite  Fort  Henry  I  saw  only  a 
little  squatty,  insignificant  looking  mud  affair,  without  the  slight 
est  feature  of  any  of  the  "pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glori 
ous  war."  It  had  been  built  on  the  low  bottom  ground  near  the 
bank  of  the  Tennessee  river,  the  stream  wras  now  high,  and  the  ad 
jacent  land  was  largely  covered  with  water,  while  the  inside  of  the 
fort  looked  a  good  deal  like  a  hog  pen.  I  couldn't  imagine  how 
such  a  contemptible  looking  thing  had  stood  off  our  gunboats  as 
long  as  it  did.  But  I  did  not  know  then  that  just  such  works,  with 
earthen  walls,  were  the  strongest  and  best  defenses  against  mod 
ern  artillery  that  could  be  constructed.  In  fact,  what  I  didn't  know 
about  war,  at  that  stage  of  the  proceedings,  was  broad  and  com 
prehensive,  and  covered  the  whole  field. 

As  we  journeyed  up  the  Tennessee  we  began  to  notice  queer- 
looking  green  bunches  of  something  on  the  trees.  As  the  forest 
had  not  yet  put  forth  its  foliage,  we  knew  that  growth  could  not 
be  leaves,  and  were  puzzled  to  imagine  what  it  could  be.  But  we 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  35 

finally  learned  from  some  of  the  boat's  crew  that  it  was  mistletoe. 
So  far  as  I  knew  none  of  the  private  soldiers  had  ever  before  seen 
that  curious  evergreen,  and  it  was  to  us  a  strange  curiosity.  But 
we  got  well  acquainted  with  it  later. 

We  arrived  at  Pittsburg  Landing  on  the  evening  of  March  31, 
about  sundown.  On  going  into  camp  in  our  position  upon  the  line, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  service  we  dwelt  in  tents.  We  had  what 
was  called  the  Sibley  tent,  an  affair  of  a  conical  shape,  rather 
large,  and  capable  of  accommodating  about  twelve  men,  with  their 
accoutrements.  As  a  circumstance  bearing  on  our  ignorance  of 
life  in  tents,  I  will  say  that  we  neglected  to  ditch  around  them,  and 
on  the  very  first  night  we  slept  in  them  there  came  a  heavy  rain, 
and  the  next  morning  found  us  lying  more  or  less  in  the  water,  and 
our  blankets  and  other  stuff  sopping  wet.  But  after  that,  on 
pitching  our  tents  one  of  the  first  things  we  did  was  to  dig  around 
them  a  sufficient  ditch  with  a  lateral  extension. 

I  retain  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  kind  of  army  cooking  we 
had  for  the  first  few  months  in  Tennessee.  At  Camp  Carrollton 
and  Benton  Barracks  we  had  company  cooks  who  prepared  the 
food  for  the  entire  company.  They  were  merely  enlisted  men,  de 
tailed  for  that  purpose,  and  while  their  cooking  was  nothing  to 
brag  about,  it  was  vastly  superior  to  what  now  ensued.  We  di 
vided  up  into  messes,  of  four,  eight,  or  twelve  men,  or  thereabouts, 
to  the  mess,  and  generally  would  take  turns  in  the  culinary  line. 
Very  few  of  us  knew  anything  whatever  about  cooking,  and  our 
exploits  in  that  regard  would  have  been  comical  if  the  effects  had 
not  been  so  pernicious.  Flour  was  issued  to  us  after  our  arrival 
at  Pittsburg  Landing,  but  we  had  no  utensils  in  which  we  could 
cook  biscuits,  or  loaves.  So  we  would  make  a  batter  out  of  flour, 
water,  grease,  and  salt,  and  cook  it  in  a  mess  pan,  the  product  be 
ing  the  army  "flapjack."  It  invariably  was  tough  as  a  mule's  ear, 
about  as  heavy  as  lead,  and  very  indigestible.  Later  we  learned  to 
construct  ovens  of  wood,  daubed  with  mud,  or  of  stone,  and  in 
them,  in  the  course  of  time,  we  acquired  the  knack  of  baking  good 


36  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

bread.     But  with  us  in  the  west  the  hardtack  was  generally  our 
standard  bread  diet,  and  nothing  could  beat  it. 

And  for  some  time  our  cooking  of  "Yankee  beans,"  as  we 
called  them,  was  simply  atrocious.  As  you  know,  beans  should  be 
cooked  until  they  are  thoroughly  done ;  otherwise  they  are  decided 
ly  harmful.  Well,  we  would  not  cook  them  much  more  than  half 
enough,  the  result  being  a  sloppy,  slimy  mess,  its  looks  alone  being 
well-nigh  sufficient  to  extinguish  one's  appetite.  And  as  for  the 
rice — the  horrible  messes  we  would  make  of  that  defy  description. 
I  know  that  one  consequence  with  me  was  I  contracted  such  an 
aversion  to  rice  that  for  many  years  afterwards,  while  in  civil  life, 
I  just  couldn't  eat  it  in  any  form,  no  matter  how  temptingly  it  was 
prepared. 

Owing  to  improperly  cooked  food,  change  of  climate  and  of 
water,  and  neglect  of  proper  sanitation  measures  in  the  camps, 
camp  diarrhea  became  epidemic  at  Pittsburg  Landing,  especially 
among  the  "green"  regiments  like  ours.     And  for  about  six  weeks 
everybody  suffered,  more  or  less,  the  difference  being  only  in  de 
gree.     The  fact  is,  the  condition  of  the  troops  in  that  quarter  dur 
ing  the  prevalence  of  that  disorder  was  simply  so  bad  and  repul 
sive  that  any  detailed  description  thereof  will  be  passed  over.     I 
never  saw  the  like  before,  and  never  have  seen  it  since.    I  always 
thought  that  one  thing  which  aggravated  this  trouble  was  the  in 
ordinate  quantity  of  sugar  some  of  the  men  would  consume.    They 
would  not  only  use  it  to  excess  in  their  coffee  and  rice,  but  would 
frequently  eat  it  raw,  by  handfuls.     I  happen  to  think,  right  now, 
of  an  incident  that  illustrates  the  unnatural  appetite  of  some  of 
the  men  for  sugar.     It  occurred  in  camp  one  rainy  day  during  the 
siege  of  Corinth.    Jake  Hill,  of  my  company,  had  covered  the  top 
of  a  big  army  hardtack  with  sugar  in  a  cone-like  form,  piling  it  on 
as  long  as  the  tack  would  hold  a  grain.    Then  he  seated  himself  on 
his  knapsack  and  proceeded  to  gnaw  away  at  his  feast,  by  a  system 
of  "regular  approaches."     He  was  even  then  suffering   from   the 
epidemic  before  mentioned,   and   so   weak  he   could   hardly   walk. 
Some  one  said  to  him,  "Jake,  that  sugar  ain't  good  for  you  in  your 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  37 

condition."  He  looked  up  with  an  aggrieved  air  and  responded  in 
a  tone  of  cruelly  injured  innocence,  "Haven't  I  the  right  to  eat  my 
r-a-a-tion?"  Strange  to  say,  Jake  got  well,  and  served  throughout 
the  war.  He  was  a  good  soldier,  too. 

For  my  part,  I  quit  using  sugar  in  any  form,  early  in  my  army 
service,  (except  a  little,  occasionally,  with  stewed  fruit,  or  ber 
ries,)  and  didn't  resume  its  general  use  until  some  years  after  my 
discharge  from  the  army. 

In  consequence  of  the  conditions  at  Pittsburg  Landing  that 
have  been  alluded  to,  men  died  by  the  score  like  rotten  sheep.  And 
a  great  many  more  were  discharged  for  disability  and  thereby  were 
lost  to  the  service.  It  is  true  that  some  of  these  discharged  men, 
especially  the  younger  ones,  subsequently  re-enlisted,  and  made 
good  soldiers.  But  this  loss  to  the  Union  armies  in  Tennessee  in 
the  spring  of  '62  by  disease  would  undoubtedly  surpass  the  casual 
ties  of  a  great  battle,  but,  unlike  a  battle,  there  was  no  resulting 
compensation  whatever. 

The  battle  of  Shiloh  was  fought  on  April  6  and  7.  In  1890  I 
wrote  an  article  on  the  battle  which  was  published  in  the  New  York 
Tribune,  and  later  it  appeared  in  several  other  newspapers.  It  has 
also  been  reprinted  in  book  form  in  connection  with  papers  by 
other  persons,  some  about  the  war,  and  others  of  a  miscellaneous 
nature.  The  piece  I  wrote  twenty-five  years  ago  is  as  good,  I 
reckon,  if  not  better  than  anything  on  that  head  I  can  write  now, 
so  it  will  be  set  out  here. 

IN  THE  RANKS  AT  SHILOH. 

By  Leander  Stillwell,  late  First  Lieutenant,  61st  Illinois  Volunteer 

Infantry. 

There  has  been  a  great  deal  said  and  written  about  the  battle 
of  Shiloh,  both  by  Rebel  and  Union  officers  and  writers.  On  the 
part  of  the  first  there  has  been,  and  probably  always  will  be,  angry 
dispute  and  criticism  about  the  conduct  of  General  Beauregard  in 
calling  off  his  troops  Sunday  evening  while  fully  an  hour  of  broad, 
precious  daylight  still  remained,  which,  as  claimed  by  some,  might 


38  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

have  been  utilized  in  destroying  the  remainder  of  Grant's  army 
before  Buell  could  have  crossed  the  Tennessee.  On  the  part  of 
Union  writers  the  matters  most  discussed  have  been  as  to  whether 
or  not  our  forces  were  surprised,  the  condition  of  Grant's  army  at 
the  close  of  the  first  day,  what  the  result  would  have  been  with 
out  the  aid  of  the  gunboats,  or  if  BuelPs  army  had  not  come,  and 
kindred  subjects.  It  is  not  my  purpose,  in  telling  my  story  of 
the  battle  of  Shiloh,  to  say  anything  that  will  add  to  this  volume 
of  discussion.  My  age  at  the  time  was  but  eighteen,  and  my  posi 
tion  that  of  a  common  soldier  in  the  ranks.  It  would  therefore  be 
foolish  in  me  to  assume  the  part  of  a  critic.  The  generals,  who, 
from  reasonably  safe  points  of  observation,  are  sweeping  the  field 
with  their  glasses,  and  noting  and  directing  the  movements  of  the 
lines  of  battle,  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  the  ones  to  fur 
nish  the  facts  that  go  to  make  history.  The  extent  of  a  battle 
field  seen  by  the  common  soldier  is  that  only  which  comes  within 
the  range  of  the  raised  sights  of  his  musket.  And  what  little  he 
does  see  is  as  "through  a  glass,  darkly."  The  dense  banks  of 
powder  smoke  obstruct  his  gaze;  he  catches  but  fitful  glimpses  of 
his  adversaries  as  the  smoke  veers  or  rises. 

Then,  too,  my  own  experience  makes  me  think  that  where  the 
common  soldier  does  his  duty,  all  his  faculties  of  mind  and  body 
are  employed  in  attending  to  the  details  of  his  own  personal  part 
of  the  work  of  destruction,  and  there  is  but  little  time  left  him  for 
taking  mental  notes  to  form  the  bases  of  historical  articles  a 
quarter  of  a  century  afterward.  The  handling,  tearing,  and 
charging  of  his  cartridge,  ramming  it  home  (we  used  muzzle 
loaders  during  the  Civil  War),  the  capping  of  his  gun,  the  aiming 
and  firing,  with  furious  haste  and  desperate  energy, — for  every 
shot  may  be  his  last, — these  things  require  the  soldier's  close  per 
sonal  attention  and  make  him  oblivious  to  matters  transpiring  be 
yond  his  immediate  neighborhood.  Moreover,  his  sense  of  hear 
ing  is  well-nigh  overcome  by  the  deafening  uproar  going  on  around 
him.  The  incessant  and  terrible  crash  of  musketry,  the  roar  of 
the  cannon,  the  continual  zip,  zip,  of  the  bullets  as  they  hiss  by 


THE  STORY   OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  39 

him,  interspersed  with  the  agonizing  screams  of  the  wounded,  or 
the  death  shrieks  of  comrades  falling  in  dying  convulsions  right 
in  the  face  of  the  living, — these  things  are  not  conducive  to  that 
serene  and  judicial  mental  equipoise  which  the  historian  enjoys  in 
his  closet. 

Let  the  generals  and  historians,  therefore,  write  of  the  move 
ments  of  corps,  divisions,  and  brigades.  I  have  naught  to  tell 
but  the  simple  story  of  what  one  private  soldier  saw  of  one  of  the 
bloodiest  battles  of  the  war. 

The  regiment  to  which  I  belonged  was  the  61st  Illinois  In 
fantry.  It  left  its  camp  of  instruction  (a  country  town  in  southern 
Illinois)  about  the  last  of  February,  1862.  We  were  sent  to  Ben- 
ton  Barracks,  near  St.  Louis,  and  remained  there  drilling  (when 
the  weather  would  permit)  until  March  25th.  We  left  on  that 
day  for  the  front.  It  was  a  cloudy,  drizzly,  and  most  gloomy  day, 
as  we  marched  through  the  streets  of  St.  Louis  down  to  the  levee,  to 
embark  on  a  transport  that  was  to  take  us  to  our  destination. 
The  city  was  enveloped  in  that  pall  of  coal  smoke  for  which  St. 
Louis  is  celebrated.  It  hung  heavy  and  low  and  set  us  all  to 
coughing.  I  think  the  colonel  must  have  marched  us  down 
some  by-street.  It  was  narrow  and  dirty,  with  high  buildings 
on  either  side.  The  line  officers  took  the  sidewalks,  while  the 
regiment,  marching  by  the  flank,  tramped  in  silence  down  the  mid 
dle  of  the  street,  slumping  through  the  nasty,  slimy  mud.  There 
was  one  thing  very  noticeable  on  this  march  through  St.  Louis, 
and  that  was  the  utter  lack  of  interest  taken  in  us  by  the  inhabit 
ants.  From  pictures  I  had  seen  in  books  at  home,  my  idea  was 
that  when  soldiers  departed  for  war,  beautiful  ladies  stood  on  bal 
conies  and  waved  snowy-white  handkerchiefs  at  the  troops,  while 
the  men  stood  on  the  sidewalks  and  corners  and  swung  their  hats 
and  cheered. 

There  may  have  been  regiments  so  favored,  but  ours  was  not 
one  of  them.  Occasionally  a  fat,  chunky-looking  fellow,  of  a 
German  cast  of  countenance,  with  a  big  pipe  in  his  mouth,  would 
stick  his  head  out  of  a  door  or  window,  look  at  us  a  few  seconds, 


40  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

and  then  disappear.  No  handkerchiefs  nor  hats  were  waved,  we 
heard  no  cheers.  My  thoughts  at  the  time  were  that  the  Union 
people  there  had  all  gone  to  war,  or  else  the  colonel  was  marching 
us  through  a  "  Secesh"  part  of  town 

We  marched  to  the  levee  and  from  there  on  board  the  big 
sidewheel  steamer,  Empress.  The  next  evening  she  unfastened 
her  moorings,  swung  her  head  out  into  the  river,  turned  down 
stream,  and  we  were  off  for  the  "seat  of  war."  We  arrived  at 
Pittsburg  Landing  on  March  31st.  Pittsburg  Landing,  as  its 
name  indicates,  was  simply  a  landing  place  for  steamboats.  It  is 
on  the  west  bank  of  the  Tennessee  river,  in  a  thickly  wooded 
region  about  twenty  miles  northeast  of  Corinth.  There  was  no 
town  there  then,  nothing  but  "the  log  house  on  the  hill"  that  the 
survivors  of  the  battle  of  Shiloh  will  all  remember.  The  banks 
of  the  Tennessee  on  the  Pittsburg  Landing  side  are  steep  and 
bluffy,  rising  about  100  feet  above  the  level  of  the  river.  Shiloh 
church,  that  gave  the  battle  its  name,  was  a  Methodist  meeting 
house.  It  was  a  small,  hewed  log  building  with  a  clapboard  roof, 
about  two  miles  out  from  the  landing  on  the  main  Corinth  road. 
On  our  arrival  we  were  assigned  to  the  division  of  General  B.  M. 
Prentiss,  and  we  at  once  marched  out  and  went  into  camp.  About 
half  a  mile  from  the  landing  the  road  forks,  the  main  Corinth  road 
goes  to  the  right,  past  Shiloh  church,  the  other  goes  to  the  left. 
These  two  roads  come  together  again  some  miles  out.  General 
Prentiss'  division  was  camped  on  this  left-hand  road  at  right  angles 
to  it.  Our  regiment  went  into  camp  almost  on  the  extreme  left 
of  Prentiss'  line.  There  was  a  brigade  of  Sherman's  division  un 
der  General  Stuart  still  further  to  the  left,  about  a  mile,  I  think, 
in  camp  near  a  ford  of  Lick  Creek,  where  the  Hamburg  and  Purdy 
road  crosses  the  creek ;  and  between  the  left  of  Prentiss'  and  Gen 
eral  Stuart's  camp  there  were  no  troops.  I  know  that,  for  during 
the  few  days  intervening  between  our  arrival  and  the  battle  I 
roamed  all  through  those  woods  on  our  left,  between  us  and 
Stuart,  hunting  for  wild  onions  and  "turkey  peas." 

The  camp  of  our  regiment  was  about  two  miles  from  the  land- 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  41 

ing.  The  tents  were  pitched  in  the  woods,  and  there  was  a  little 
field  of  about  twenty  acres  in  our  front.  The  camp  faced  nearly 
west,  or  possibly  southwest. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  glad  I  was  to  get  off  that  old  steam 
boat  and  be  on  solid  ground  once  more,  in  camp  out  in  those  old 
woods.  My  company  had  made  the  trip  from  St.  Louis  to  Pitts- 
burg  Landing  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  the  steamboat,  and  our 
fare  on  the  route  had  been  hardtack  and  raw  fat  meat,  washed 
down  with  river  water,  as  we  had  no  chance  to  cook  anything, 
and  we  had  not  then  learned  the  trick  of  catching  the  surplus  hot 
water  ejected  from  the  boilers  and  making  coffee  with  it.  But 
once  on  solid  ground,  with  plenty  of  wood  to  make  fires,  that  bill 
of  fare  was  changed.  I  shall  never  again  eat  meat  that  will  taste 
as  good  as  the  fried  "sowbelly"  did  then,  accompanied  by  "flap 
jacks"  and  plenty  of  good,  strong  coffee.  We  had  not  yet  got 
settled  down  to  the  regular  drills,  guard  duty  was  light,  and  things 
generally  seemed  to  run  "kind  of  loose."  And  then  the  climate 
was  delightful.  We  had  just  left  the  bleak,  frozen  north,  where 
all  was  cold  and  cheerless,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a  clime  where 
the  air  was  as  soft  and  warm  as  it  was  in  Illinois  in  the  latter  part 
of  May.  The  green  grass  was  springing  from  the  ground,  the 
"Johnny-jump-ups"  were  in  blossom,  the  trees  were  bursting  into 
leaf,  and  the  woods  were  full  of  feathered  songsters.  There  was 
a  redbird  that  would  come  every  morning  about  sunup  and  perch 
himself  in  the  tall  black-oak  tree  in  our  company  street,  and  for 
perhaps  an  hour  he  would  practice  on  his  impatient,  querulous 
note,  that  said,  as  plain  as  a  bird  could  say,  "Boys,  boys!  get  up! 
get  up !  get  up !"  It  became  a  standing  remark  among  the  boys  that 
he  was  a  Union  redbird  and  had  enlisted  in  our  regiment  to  sound 
the  reveille. 

So  the  time  passed  pleasantly  away  until  that  eventful  Sun 
day  morning,  Aprjl  6,  1862.  According  to  the  Tribune  Almanac 
for  that  year,  the  sun  rose  that  morning  in  Tennessee  at  38  minutes 
past  five  o'clock.  I  had  no  watch,  but  I  have  always  been  of  the 
opinion  that  the  sun  was  fully  an  hour  and  a  half  high  before 


42  THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

the  fighting  began  on  our  part  of  the  line.  We  had  "turned  out" 
about  sunup,  answered  to  roll-call,  and  had  cooked  and  eaten  our 
breakfast.  We  had  then  gone  to  work,  preparing  for  the  regular 
Sunday  morning  inspection,  which  would  take  place  at  nine  o'clock. 
The  boys  were  scattered  around  the  company  streets  and  in  front 
of  the  company  parade  grounds,  engaged  in  polishing  and  bright 
ening  their  muskets,  and  brushing  up  and  cleaning  their  shoes, 
jackets,  trousers,  and  clothing  generally.  It  was  a  most  beautiful 
morning.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly  through  the  trees,  and 
there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  It  really  seemed  like  Sunday  in 
the  country  at  home.  During  week  days  there  was  a  continual 
stream  ,of  army  wagons  going  to  and  from  the  landing,  and  the 
clucking  of  their  wheels,  the  yells  and  oaths  of  the  drivers,  the 
cracking  of  whips,  mingled  with  the  braying  of  mules,  the  neigh 
ing  of  the  horses,  the  commands  of  the  officers  engaged  in  drilling 
the  men,  the  incessant  hum  and  buzz  of  the  camps,  the  blare  of 
bugles,  and  the  roll  of  drums, — all  these  made  up  a  prodigious  vol 
ume  of  sound  that  lasted  from  the  coming-up  to  the  going-down 
of  the  sun.  But  this  morning  was  strangely  still.  The  wagons 
were  silent,  the  mules  were  peacefully  munching  their  hay,  and  the 
army  teamsters  were  giving  us  a  rest.  I  listened  with  delight  to 
the  plaintive,  'mournful  tones  of  a  turtle-dove  in  the  woods  close 
by,  while  on  the  dead  limb  of  a  tall  tree  right  in  the  camp  a  wood 
pecker  was  sounding  his  "long  roll"  just  as  I  had  heard  it  beaten 
by  his  Northern  brothers  a  thousand  times  on  the  trees  in  the 
Otter  Creek  bottom  at  home. 

Suddenly,  away  off  on  the  right,  in  the  direction  of  Shiloh 
church,  came  a  dull,  heavy  "Pum !"  then  another,  and  still  another. 
Every  man  sprung  to  his  feet  as  if  struck  by  an  electric  shock,  and 
we  looked  inquiringly  into  one  another's  faces.  "What  is  that?" 
asked  every  one,  but  no  one  answered.  Those  heavy  booms  then 
came  thicker  and  faster,  and  just  a  few  seconds  after  we  heard 
that  first  dull,  ominous  growl  off  to  the  southwest,  came  a  low, 
sullen,  continuous  roar.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  sound. 
That  was  not  a  squad  of  pickets  emptying  their  guns  on  being  re- 


THE   STORY   OF   A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  43 

lieved  from  duty ;  it  was  the  continuous  roll  of  thousands  of  mus 
kets,  and  told  us  that  a  battle  was  on. 

What  I  have  been  describing  just  now  occurred  during  a  few 
seconds  only,  and  with  the  roar  of  musketry  the  long  roll  began  to 
beat  in  our  camp.  Then  ensued  a  scene  of  desperate  haste,  the 
like  of  which  I  certainly  had  never  seen  before,  nor  ever  saw  again. 
I  remember  that  MI  the  midst  of  this  terrible  uproar  and  confu 
sion,  while  the  boys  were  buckling  on  their  cartridge  boxes,  and  be 
fore  even  the  companies  had  been  formed,  a  mounted  staff  officer 
came  galloping  wildly  down  the  line  from  the  right.  He  checked  and 
whirled  his  horse  sharply  around  right  in  our  company  street,  the 
iron-bound  hoofs  of  his  steed  crashing  among  the  tin  plates  lying 
in  a  little  pile  where  my  mess  had  eaten  its  breakfast  that  morning. 
The  horse  was  flecked  with  foam  and  its  eyes  and  nostrils  were  red 
as  blood.  The  officer  cast  one  hurried  glance  around  him,  and  ex 
claimed  :  "My  God !  this  regiment  not  in  line  yet !  They  have  been 
fighting  on  the  right  over  an  hour!"  And  wheeling  his  horse,  he 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  colonel's  tent. 

I  know  now  that  history  says  the  battle  began  about  4:30  that 
morning;  that  it  was  brought  on  by  a  reconnoitering  party  sent 
out  early  that  morning  by  General  Prentiss;  that  General  Sher 
man's  division  on  the  right  was  early  advised  of  the  approach  of 
the  Rebel  army,  and  got  ready  to  meet  them  in  ample  time.  I 
have  read  these  things  in  books  and  am  not  disputing  them,  but 
aim  simply  telling  the  story  of  an  enlisted  man  on  the  left  of 
Prentiss'  line  as  to  what  he  saw  and  knew  of  the  condition  of 
things  at  about  seven  o'clock  that  morning. 

Well,  the  companies  were  formed,  we  marched  out  on  the 
regimental  parade  ground,  and  the  regiment  was  formed  in  line. 
The  command  was  given:  "Load  at  will;  load!"  We  had  antici 
pated  this,  however,  as  the  most  of  us  had  instinctively  loaded  our 
guns  before  we  had  formed  company.  All  this  time  the  roar  on 
the  right  was  getting  nearer  and  louder.  Our  old  colonel  rode  up 
close  to  us,  opposite  the  center  of  the  regimental  line,  and  called 
out,  "Attention,  battalion!"  We  fixed  our  eyes  on  him  to  hear 


44  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER, 

what  was  coming.     It  turned  out  to  be  the  old     man's     battle 
harangue. 

"Gentleman,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  every  man  in  the  regi 
ment  heard,  " remember  your  State,  and  do  your  duty  today  like 
brave  men." 

That  was  all.  A  year  later  in  the  war  the  old  man  doubtless 
would  have  addressed  us  as  "soldiers,"  and  not  as  "gentlemen," 
and  he  would  have  omitted  his  allusion  to  the  "State,"  which 
smacked  a  little  of  Confederate  notions.  However,  he  was  a  Doug 
las  Democrat,  and  his  mind  was  probably  running  on  Buena  Vista, 
in  the  Mexican  war,  where,  it  is  said,  a  Western  regiment  acted 
badly,  and  threw  a  cloud  over  the  reputation  for  courage  of  the 
men  of  that  State  which  required  the  thunders  of  the  Civil  War 
to  disperse.  Immediately  after  the  colonel  had  given  us  his  brief 
exhortation,  the  regiment  was  marched  across  the  little  field  I 
have  before  mentioned,  and  we  took  our  place  in  line  of  battle,  the 
woods  in  front  of  us,  and  the  open  field  in  our  rear.  We  "dressed 
on"  the  colors,  ordered  arms,  and  stood  awaiting  the  attack.  By 
this  time  the  roar  on  the  right  had  become  terrific.  The  Rebel 
army  was  unfolding  its  front,  and  the  battle  was  steadily  advancing 
in  our  direction.  We  could  begin  to  see  the  blue  rings  of  smoke 
curling  upward  among  the  trees  off  to  the  right,  and  the  pungent 
smell  of  burning  gun-powder  filled  the  air.  As  the  roar  came 
travelling  down  the  line  from  the  right  it  reminded  me  (only  it 
was  a  million  times  louder)  of  the  sweep  of  a  thunder-shower  in 
summer-time  over  the  hard  ground  of  a  stubble-field. 

And  there  we  stood,  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  so  still,  waiting 
for  the  storm  to  break  on  us.  I  know  mighty  well  what  I  was 
thinking  about  then.  My  mind's  eye  was  fixed  on  a  little  log  cabin, 
far  away  to  the  north,  in  the  backwoods  of  western  Illinois.  I 
could  see  my  father  sitting  on  the  porch,  reading  the  little  local 
newspaper  brought  from  the  post-office  the  evening  before.  There 
was  my  mother  getting  my  little  brothers  ready  for  Sunday-school ; 
the  old  dog  lying  asleep  in  the  sun;  the  hens  cackling  about  the 
barn;  all  these  things  and  a  hundred  other  tender  recollections 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  45 

rushed  into  my  mind.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  now  that  I  would 
willingly  have  given  a  general  quit-claim  deed  for  every  jot  and 
tittle  of  military  glory  falling  to  me,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
if  I  only  could  have  been  miraculously  and  instantaneously  set 
down  in  the  yard  of  that  peaceful  little  home,  a  thousand  miles 
away  from  the  haunts  of  fighting  men. 

The  time  we  thus  stood,  waiting  the  attack,  could  not  have 
exceeded  five  minutes.  Suddenly,  obliquely  to  our  right,  there 
was  a  long,  wavy  flash  of  bright  light,  then  another,  and  another! 
It  was  the  sunlight  shining  on  gun  barrels  and  bayonets — and — 
there  they  were  at  last!  A  long  brown  line,  with  muskets  at  a 
right  shoulder  shift,  in  excellent  order,  right  through  the  woods 
they  came. 

We  began  firing  at  once.  From  one  end  of  the  regiment  to 
the  other  leaped  a  sheet  of  red  flame,  and  the  roar  that  went  up 
from  the  edge  of  that  old  field  doubtless  advised  General  Prentiss 
of  the  fact  that  the  Rebels  had  at  last  struck  the  extreme  left  of 
his  line.  We  had  fired  but  two  or  three  rounds  when,  for  some 
reason, — I  never  knew  what, — we  were  ordered  to  fall  back  across 
the  field,  and  did  so.  The  whole  line,  so  far  as  I  could  see  to  the 
right,  went  back.  We  halted  on  the  other  side  of  the  field,  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  in  front  of  our  tents,  and  again  began  firing. 
The  Rebels,  of  course,  had  moved  up  and  occupied  the  line  we  had 
just  abandoned.  And  here  we  did  our  first  hard  fighting  during 
the  day.  Our  officers  said,  after  the  battle  was  over,  that  we  held 
this  line  an  hour  and  ten  minutes.  How  long  it  was  I  do  not  know. 
I  "took  no  note  of  time." 

We  retreated  from  this  position  as  our  officers  afterward  said, 
because  the  troops  on  our  right  had  given  way,  and  we  were 
flanked.  Possibly  those  boys  on  our  right  would  give  the  same 
excuse  for  their  leaving,  and  probably  truly,  too.  Still,  I  think 
we  did  not  fall  back  a  minute  too  soon.  As  I  rose  from  the  com 
fortable  log  from  behind  which  a  bunch  of  us  had  been  firing,  I 
saw  men  in  gray  and  brown  clothes,  with  trailed  muskets,  running 
through  the  camp  on  our  right,  and  I  saw  something  else,  too, 


4G  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

that  sent  a  chill  all  through  me.  It  was  a  kind  of  flag  I  had  never 
seen  before.  It  was  a  gaudy  sort  of  thing,  with  red  bars.  It 
flashed  over  me  in  a  second  that  that  thing  was  a  Rebel  flag.  It 
was  not  more  than  sixty  yards  to  the  right.  The  smoke  around 
it  was  low  and  dense  and  kept  me  from  seeing  the  man,  who  was 
carrying  it,  but  I  plainly  saw  the  banner.  It  was  going  fast,  with 
a  jerky  motion,  which  told  me  that  the  bearer  was  on  a  double- 
quick.  About  that  time  we  left.  We  observed  no  kind  of  order 
in  leaving;  the  main  thing  was  to  get  out  of  there  as  quick  as  we 
could.  I  ran  down  our  company  street,  and  in  passing  the  big 
Sibley  tent  of  our  mess  I  thought  of  my  knapsack  with  all  my 
traps  and  belongings,  including  that  precious  little  packet  of  letters 
from  home.  I  said  to  myself,  "I  will  save  my  knapsack,  anyhow ;" 
but  one  quick  backward  glance  over  my  left  shoulder  made  me 
change  my  mind,  and  I  went  on.  I  never  saw  my  knapsack  or  any 
of  its  contents  afterwards. 

Our  broken  forces  halted  and  re-formed  about  half  a  mile  to 
the  rear  of  our  camp  on  the  summit  of  a  gentle  ridge,  covered  with 
thick  brush.  I  recognized  our  regiment  by  the  little  gray  pony 
the  old  colonel  rode,  and  hurried  to  my  place  in  the  ranks.  Stand 
ing  there  with  our  faces  once  more  to  the  front,  I  saw  a  seemingly 
endless  column  of  men  in  blue,  marching  by  the  flank,  who  were  fil 
ing  off  to  the  right  through  the  woods,  and  I  heard  our  old  German 
adjutant,  Cramer,  say  to  the  colonel,  "Dose  are  de  troops  of  Shener- 
al  Hurlbut.  He  is  forming  a  new  line  dere  in  de  bush."  I  ex 
claimed  to  myself  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  "Bully  for  General 
Hurlbut  and  the  new  line  in  the  bush !  Maybe  we'll  whip  'em  yet." 
I  shall  never  forget  my  feelings  about  this  time.  I  was  astonished 
at  our  first  retreat  in  the  morning  across  the  field  back  to  our 
camp,  but  it  occurred  to  me  that  maybe  that  was  only  "strategy" 
and  all  done  on  purpose ;  but  when  we  had  to  give  up  our  camp, 
and  actually  turn  our  backs  and  run  half  a  mile,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  we  were  forever  disgraced,  and  I  kept  thinking  to  myself: 
"What  will  they  say  about  this  at  home?" 

I  was  very  dry  for  a  drink,  and  as  we  were  doing  nothing  just 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  47 

then,  I  slipped  out  of  ranks  and  ran  down  to  the  little  hollow  in 
our  rear,  in  search  of  water.  Finding  a  little  pool,  I  threw  myself 
on  the  ground  and  took  a  copious  draught.  As  I  rose  to  my  feet, 
I  observed  an  officer  about  a  rod  above  me  also  quenching  his 
thirst,  holding  his  horse  meanwhile  by  the  bridle.  As  he  rose  I 
saw  it  was  our  old  adjutant.  At  no  other  time  would  I  have  dared 
accost  him  unless  in  the  line  of  duty,  but  the  situation  made  me 
bold.  "Adjutant,"  I  said,  "What  does  this  mean — our  having  to 
run  this  way?  Ain't  we  whipped?"  He  blew  the  water  from  his 
mustache,  and  quickly  answered  in  a  careless  way :  "Oh,  no ;  dat  is 
all  ride.  We  yoost  fall  back  to  form  on  the  reserve.  Sheneral 
Buell  vas  now  crossing  der  river  mit  50,000  men,  and  vill  be  here 
pooty  quick;  and  Sheneral  Lew  Vallace  is  coming  from  Crump's 
Landing  mit  15,000  more.  Ve  vips  'em;  ve  vips  'em.  Go  to  your 
gompany."  Back  I  went  on  the  run,  with  a  heart  as  light  as  a 
feather.  As  I  took  my  place  in  the  ranks  beside  my  chum,  Jack 
Medford,  I  said  to  hirn:  "Jack,  I've  just  had  a  talk  with  the  old  ad 
jutant,  down  at  the  branch  where  I've  been  to  get  a  drink.  He 
says  Buell  is  crossing  the  river  with  75,000  men  and  a  whole  world 
of  cannon,  and  that  some  other  general  is  coming  up  from  Crump's 
Landing  with  25,000  more  men.  He  says  we  fell  back  here  on  pur 
pose,  and  that  we're  going  to  whip  the  Secesh,  just  sure.  Ain't 
that  just  perfectly  bully?"  I  had  improved  some  on  the  adjutant's 
figures,  as  the  news  was  so  glorious  I  thought  a  little  variance  of 
25,000  or  30,000  men  would  make  no  difference  in  the  end.  But 
as  the  long  hours  wore  on  that  day,  and  still  Buell  and  Wallace  did 
not  come,  my  faith  in  the  adjutant's  veracity  became  considerably 
shaken. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  my  regiment  was  detached  from  Pren- 
tiss'  division  and  served  with  it  no  more  that  day.  We  were  sent 
some  distance  to  the  right  to  support  a  battery,  the  name  of  which 
I  never  learned.*  It  was  occupying  the  summit  of  a  slope,  and  was 
actively  engaged  when  we  reached  it.  We  were  put  in  position 
*Some  years  after  this  sketch  was  written  I  ascertained  that  this  bat 
tery  was  Richardson's,  Co.  D,  1st  Missouri  Light  Artillery. 


48  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

about  twenty  rods  in  the  rear  of  the  battery,  and  ordered  to  lie  flat 
on  the  ground.  The  ground  sloped  gently  down  in  our  direction,  so 
that  by  hugging  it  close,  the  rebel  shot  and  shell  went  over  us. 

It  was  here,  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  I  first 
saw  Grant  that  day.  He  was  on  horseback,  of  course,  accompanied 
by  his  staff,  and  was  evidently  making  a  personal  examination  of 
•  his  lines.  He  went  by  us  in  a  gallop,  riding  between  us  and  the 
battery,  at  the  head  of  his  staff.  The  battery  was  then  hotly  en 
gaged  ;  shot  and  shell  were  whizzing  overhead,  and  cutting  off  the 
limbs  of  trees,  but  Grant  rode  through  the  storm  with  perfect  in 
difference,  seemingly  paying  no  more  attention  to  the  missiles  than 
if  they  had  been  paper  wads. 

We  remained  in  support  of  this  battery  until  about  2  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  We  were  then  put  in  motion  by  the  right  flank, 
filed  to  the  left,  crossed  the  left-hand  Corinth  road ;  then  we  were 
thrown  into  the  line  by  the  command :  "By  the  left  flank,  march." 
We  crossed  a  little  ravine  and  up  a  slope,  and  relieved  a  regiment  on 
the  left  of  Hurlbut's  line.  This  line  was  desperately  engaged,  and 
had  been  at  this  point,  as  we  afterwards  learned,  for  fully  four 
hours.  I  remember  as  we  went  up  the  slope  and  began  firing,  about 
the  first  thing  that  met  my  gaze  was  what  out  West  we  would  call 
a  "windrow"  of  dead  men  in  blue ;  some  doubled  up  face  downward, 
others  with  their  white  faces  upturned  to  the  sky,  brave  boys  who 
had  been  shot  to  death  in  "holding  the  line."  Here  we  stayed  until 
our  last  cartridge  was  shot  away.  We  were  then  relieved  by 
another  regiment.  We  filled  our  cartridge  boxes  again  and  went 
back  to  the  support  of  our  battery.  The  boys  laid  down  and  talked 
in  low  tones.  Many  of  our  comrades  alive  and  well  an  hour  ago,  we 
had  left  dead  on  that  bloody  ridge.  And  still  the  battle  raged. 
From  right  to  left,  everywhere,  it  was  one  never-ending,  terrible 
roar,  with  no  prospect  of  stopping. 

Somewhere  between  4  and  5  o'clock,  as  near  as  I  can  tell,  every 
thing  became  ominously  quiet.  Our  battery  ceased  firing;  the  gun 
ners  leaned  against  the  pieces  and  talked  and  laughed.  Suddenly  a 
staff  officer  rode  up  and  said  something  in  a  low  tone  to  the  com- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  49 

mander  of  the  battery,  then  rode  to  our  colonel  and  said  something 
to  him.  The  battery  horses  were  at  once  brought  up  from  a  ravine 
in  the  rear,  and  the  battery  limbered  up  and  moved  off  through  the 
woods  diagonally  to  the  left  and  rear.  We  were  put  in  motion  by 
the  flank  and  followed  it.  Everything  kept  so  still,  the  loudest 
noise  I  heard  was  the  clucking  of  the  wheels  of  the  gun-carriages 
and  caissons  as  they  wound  through  the  woods.  We  emerged  from 
the  woods  and  entered  a  little  old  field.  I  then  saw  to  our  right  and 
front  lines  of  men  in  blue  moving  in  the  same  direction  we  were, 
and  it  was  evident  that  we  were  falling  back.  All  at  once,  on  the 
right,  the  left,  and  from  our  recent  front,  came  one  tremendous 
roar,  and  the  bullets  fell  like  hail.  The  lines  took  the  double-quick 
towards  the  rear.  For  awhile  the  attempt  was  made  to  fall  back 
in  order,  and  then  everything  went  to  pieces.  My  heart  failed  me 
utterly.  I  thought  the  day  was  lost.  A  confused  mass  of  men  and 
guns,  caissons,  army  wagons,  ambulances,  and  all  the  debris  of  a 
beaten  army  surged  and  crowded  along  the  narrow  dirt  road  to  the 
landing,  while  that  pitiless  storm  of  leaden  hail  came  crashing  on 
us  from  the  rear.  It  was  undoubtedly  at  this  crisis  in  our  affairs 
that  the  division  of  General  Prentiss  was  captured. 

I  will  digress  here  for  a  minute  to  speak  of  a  little  incident 
connected  with  this  disastrous  feature  of  the  day  that  has  always 
impressed  me  as  a  pathetic  instance  of  the  patriotism  and  unselfish 
devotion  to  the  cause  that  was  by  no  means  uncommon  among  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  Union  armies. 

There  was  in  my  company  a  middle-aged  German  named 
Charles  Oberdieck.  According  to  the  company  descriptive  book, 
he  was  a  native  of  the  then  kingdom  of  Hanover,  now  a  province 
of  Prussia.  He  was  a  typical  German,  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed, 
quiet  and  taciturn,  of  limited  and  meager  education,  but  a  model  sol 
dier,  who  accepted  without  question  and  obeyed  without  a  murmur 
the  orders  of  his  military  superiors.  Prior  to  the  war  he  had  made 
his  living  by  chopping  cord-wood  in  the  high,  timbered  hills  near 
the  mouth  of  the  Illinois  river,  or  by  working  as  a  common  laborer 
in  the  country  on  the  farms  at  $14  a  month.  He  was  unmarried,  his 


50  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

parents  were  dead,  and  he  had  no  other  immediate  relatives  sur 
viving,  either  in  his  fatherland  or  in  the  country  of  his  adoption. 
He  and  I  enlisted  from  the  same  neighborhood.  I  had  known  him 
in  civil  life  at  home,  and  hence  he  was  disposed  to  be  more  com 
municative  with  me  than  with  the  other  boys  of  the  company.  A 
day  or  two  after  the  battle  he  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a 
tree,  in  camp,  talking  over  the  incidents  of  the  fight.  "Charley," 
I  said  to  him,  "How  did  you  feel  along  about  four  o'clock  Sunday 
afternoon  when  they  broke  our  lines,  we  were  falling  back  in  dis 
order,  and  it  looked  like  the  whole  business  was  gone  up  generally?" 
He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and,  turning  his  face  quickly 
towards  me,  said:  "I  yoost  tells  you  how  I  feels.  I  no  care  any- 
dings  about  Charley ;  he  haf  no  wife  nor  children,  fadder  nor  mud- 
der,  brudder  nor  sister ;  if  Charley  get  killed,  it  makes  no  difference ; 
dere  vas  nobody  to  cry  for  him,  so  I  dinks  nudding  about  myselfs ; 
but  I  tells  you,  I  yoost  den  feels  bad  for  de  Cause !" 

Noble,  simple-hearted  old  Charley !  It  was  the  imminent  dan 
ger  only  to  the  Cause  that  made  his  heart  sink  in  that  seemingly 
fateful  hour.  When  we  heard  in  the  malignant  and  triumphant 
roar  of  the  Rebel  cannon  in  our  rear  what  might  be  the  death-knell 
of  the  last  great  experiment  of  civilized  men  to  establish  among 
the  nations  of  the  world  a  united  republic,  freed  from  the  curse  of 
pampered  kings  and  selfish,  grasping  aristocrats — it  was  in  that 
moment,  in  his  simple  language,  that  the  peril  to  the  Cause  was  the 
supreme  and  only  consideration. 

It  must  have  been  when  we  were  less  than  half  a  mile  from 
the  landing  on  our  disorderly  retreat  before  mentioned,  that  we 
saw  standing  in  line  of  battle,  at  ordered  arms,  extending  from 
both  sides  of  the  road  until  lost  to  sight  in  the  woods,  a  long,  well- 
ordered  line  of  men  in  blue.  What  did  that  mean  ?  and  where  had 
they  come  from  ?  I  was  walking  by  the  side  of  Enoch  Wallace,  the 
orderly  sergeant  of  my  company.  He  was  a  man  of  nerve  and  cour 
age,  and  by  word  and  deed  had  done  more  that  day  to  hold  us 
green  and  untried  boys  in  ranks  and  firmly  to  our  duty  than  any 
other  man  in  the  company.  But  even  he,  in  the  face  of  this  seem- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  51 

ingly  appalling  state  of  things,  had  evidently  lost  heart.  I  said  to 
him:  "Enoch,  what  are  those  men  there  for?"  He  answered  in  a 
low  tone:  "I  guess  they  are  put  there  to  hold  the  Rebels  in  check 
till  the  army  can  get  across  the  river."  And  doubtless  that  was 
the  thought  of  every  intelligent  soldier  in  our  beaten  column.  And 
yet  it  goes  to  show  how  little  the  common  soldier  knew  of  the  actual 
situation.  We  did  not  know  then  that  this  line  was  the  last  line  of 
battle  of  the  "Fighting  Fourth  Division"  under  General  Hurlbut; 
that  on  its  right  was  the  division  of  McClernand,  the  Fort  Donel- 
son  boys ;  that  on  its  right,  at  right  angles  to  it,  and,  as  it  were, 
the  refused  wing  of  the  army,  was  glorious  old  Sherman,  hanging 
on  with  a  bulldog  grip  to  the  road  across  Snake  Creek  from  Crump's 
Landing  by  which  Lew  Wallace  was  coming  with  5,000  men.  In 
other  words,  we  still  had  an  unbroken  line  confronting  the  enemy, 
made  up  of  men  who  were  not  yet  ready,  by  any  manner  of  means, 
to  give  up  that  they  were  whipped.  Nor  did  we  know  then  that 
our  retreating  mass  consisted  only  of  some  regiments  of  Hurlbut's 
division,  and  some -other  isolated  commands,  who  had  not  been  duly 
notified  of  the  recession  of  Hurlbut  and  of  his  falling  back  to  form 
a  new  line,  and  thereby  came  very  near  sharing  the  fate  of  Pren- 
tiss'  men  and  being  marched  to  the  rear  as  prisoners  of  war.  Speak 
ing  for  myself,  it  was  twenty  years  after  the  battle  before  I  found 
these  things  out,  yet  they  are  true,  just  as  much  so  as  the  fact  that 
the  sun  rose  yesterday  morning.  Well,  we  filed  through  Hurlbut's 
line,  halted,  re-formed,  and  faced  to  the  front  once  more.  We  were 
put  in  place  a  short  distance  in  the  rear  of  Hurlbut,  as  a  support  to 
some  heavy  guns.  It  must  have  been  about  five  o'clock  now.  Sud 
denly,  on  the  extreme  left,  and  just  a  little  above  the  landing,  came 
a  deafening  explosion  that  fairly  shook  the  ground  beneath  our 
feet,  followed  by  others  in  quick  and  regular  succession.  The  look 
of  wonder  and  inquiry  that  the  soldiers'  faces  wore  for  a  moment 
disappeared  for  one  of  joy  and  exultation  as  it  flashed  across  our 
minds  that  the  gunboats  had  at  last  joined  hands  in  the  dance, 
and  were  pitching  big  twenty-pound  Parrott  shells  up  the  ravine 
in  front  of  Hurlbut,  to  the  terror  and  discomfiture  of  our  adver 
saries. 


52  THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

The  last  place  my  regiment  assumed  was  close  to  the  road  com 
ing  up  from  the  landing.  As  we  were  lying  there  I  heard  the 
strains  of  martial  music  and  saw  a  body  of  men  marching  by  the 
flank  up  the  road.  I  slipped  out  of  ranks  and  walked  out  to  the  side 
of  the  road  to  see  what  troops  they  were.  Their  band  was  play 
ing  "Dixie's  Land,"  and  playing  it  well.  The  men  were  marching 
at  a  quick  step,  carrying  their  guns,  cartridge-boxes,  haversacks, 
canteens,  and  blanket-rolls.  I  saw  that  they  had  not  been  in  the 
fight,  for  there  was  no  powder-smoke  on  their  faces.  "What  regi 
ment  is  this  ?"  I  asked  of  a  young  sergeant  marching  on  the  flank. 
Back  came  the  answer  in  a  quick,  cheery  tone,  "The  36th  Indiana, 
the  advance  guard  of  Buell's  army." 

I  did  not,  on  hearing  this,  throw  my  cap  into  the  air  and  yell. 
That  would  have  given  those  Indiana  fellows  a  chance  to  chaff  and 
guy  me,  and  possibly  make  sarcastic  remarks,  which  I  did  not  care 
to  provoke.  I  gave  one  big,  gasping  swallow  and  stood  still,  buU 
the  blood  thumped  in  the  veins  of  my  throat  and  my  heart  fairly 
pounded  against  my  little  infantry  jacket  in  the  joyous  rapture  of 
this  glorious  intelligence.  Soldiers  need  not  be  told  of  the  thrill 
of  unspeakable  exultation  they  all  have  felt  at  the  sight  of  armed 
friends  in  danger's  darkest  hour.  Speaking  for  myself  alone,  I  can 
only  say,  in  the  most  heart-felt  sincerity,  that  in  all  my  obscure 
military  career,  never  to  me  was  the  sight  of  reinforcing  legions 
so  precious  and  so  welcome  as  on  that  Sunday  evening  when  the 
rays  of  the  descending  sun  were  flashed  back  from  the  bayonets  of 
Buell's  advance  column  as  it  deployed  on  the  bluffs  of  Pittsburg 
Landing. 

My  account  of  the  battle  is  a?: out  done.  So  far  as  I  saw  or 
heard,  very  little  fighting  was  done  that  evening  after  Buell's  ad 
vance  crossed  the  river.  The  sun  must  have  been  fully  an  hour 
high  when  anything  like  regular  anrl  continuous  firing  had  entirely 
ceased.  What  the  result  would  have  been  if  Beauregard  had 
massed  his  troops  on  our  left  and  forced  the  fighting  late  Sunday 
evening  would  be  a  matter  of  opinion,  and  a  common  soldier's 
opinion  would  not  be  considered  worth  much. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  53 

My  regiment  was  held  in  reserve  the  next  day,  and  was  not 
engaged.  I  have,  therefore,  no  personal  experience  of  that  day  to 
relate.  After  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  play  my 
humble  part  in  several  other  fierce  conflicts  of  arms,  but  Shiloh 
was  my  maiden  fight.  It  was  there  I  first  saw  a  gun  fired  in  anger, 
heard  the  whistle  of  a  bullet,  or  saw  a  man  die  a  violent  death,  and 
my  experiences,  thoughts,  impressions,  and  sensations  on  that 
bloody  Sunday  will  abide  with  me  as  long  as  I  live. 


54  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


SOME  INCIDENTS  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH. 

There  were  many  little  incidents  at  Shiloh  that  came  under 
my  personal  observation  that  I  did  not  mention  in  the  foregoing 
sketch.  The  matter  of  space  was  important,  so  I  passed  them 
over.  But  that  consideration  does  not  arise  now,  and  as  I  am 
writing  this  for  you,  I  will  say  something  here  about  several 
things  that  I  think  may  be  of  some  interest. 

I  distinctly  remember  my  first  shot  at  Shiloh.     It  was  fired 
when  we  were  in  our  first  position,  as  described  in  my  account  of 
the  battle.    I  think  that  when  the  boys  saw  the  enemy  advancing 
they  began  firing  of  their  own  motion,  without  waiting  for  orders. 
At  least,  I  don't  remember  hearing  any.    I  was  in  the  front  ranjt, 
but  didn't  fire.    I  preferred  to  wait  for  a  good  opportunity,  when  I 
could  take  deliberate  aim  at  some  individual  foe.     But  when  the 
regiment  fired,  the  Confederates  halted  and  began  firing  also,  and 
fronts  of  both  lines  were  at  once  shrouded  in  smoke.    I  had  my 
gun  at  a  ready,  and  was  trying  to  peer  under  the  smoke  in  order  to 
get  a  sight  of  our  enemies.    Suddenly  I  heard  some  one  in  a  highly 
excited  tone  calling  to  me  from  just  in  my  rear, — "Still well!  shoot! 
shoot!  Why  don't  you  shoot?"    I  looked  around  and  saw  that  this 
command  was  being  given  by  Bob  Wilder,  our  second  lieutenant, 
who  was  in  his  place,  just  a  few  steps  to  the  rear.    He  was  a  young 
man,  about  twenty-five  years  old,  and  was  fairly  wild  with  excite 
ment,  jumping  up  and  down  "like  a  hen  on  a  hot  griddle."    "Why, 
lieutenant,"  said  I,  "I  can't  see  anything  to  shoot  at."     "Shoot, 
shoot,  anyhow !"    ""All  right,"  I  responded,  "if  you  say  shoot,  shoot 
it  is ;"  and  bringing  my  gun  to  my  shoulder,  I  aimed  low  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  enemy,  and  blazed  away  through  the  smoke.    I  have 
always  doubted  if  this,    my    first    shot,  did    any    execution — but 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  55 

there's  no  telling.  However,  the  lieutenant  was  clearly  right.  Our 
adversaries  were  in  our  front,  in  easy  range,  and  it  was  our  duty 
to  aim  low,  fire  in  their  general  direction,  and  let  fate  do  the  rest. 
But  at  the  time  the  idea  to  me  was  ridiculous  that  one  should 
blindly  shoot  into  a  cloud  of  smoke  without  having  a  bead  on  the 
object  to  be  shot  at.  I  had  shot  squirrels  and  rabbits,  and  other 
small  game,  in  the  big  woods  adjacent  -to  our  backwoods  home, 
from  the  time  I  was  big  enough  to  carry  a  gun.  In  fact,  I  began 
when  I  was  too  small  to  shoot  "off  hand,"  but  had  to  fire  from  a 
"rest," — any  convenient  stump,  log,  or  forked  bush.  The  gun  I 
used  was  a  little  old  percussion  lock  rifle,  with  a  long  barrel,  car 
rying  a  bullet  which  weighed  about  sixty  to  the  pound.  We  boys 
had  to  furnish  our  own  ammunition, — lead  (which  we  moulded 
into  bullets),  gun-caps,  and  powder.  Our  principal  source  of  rev 
enue  whereby  we  got  money  to  buy  ammunition  was  hazel-nuts, 
which  we  would  gather,  shuck,  and  sell  at  five  cents  a  quart.  And 
the  work  incident  to  the  gathering  and  shucking  of  a  quart  of 
hazel  nuts  was  a  decidedly  tedious  job.  But  it  made  us  economical 
in  the  use  of  our  ordnance  stores,  so  we  would  never  throw  away 
a  shot  carelessly  or  unnecessarily.  And  it  was  a  standing  rule 
never  to  shoot  a  squirrel  anywhere  except  in  the  head,  save  as  a 
last  resort,  when  circumstances  compelled  one  to  fire  at  some  other 
part  of  the  body  of  the  little  animal.  And  so  I  thought,  at  the  be 
ginning  of  my  military  career,  that  I  should  use  the  same  care  and 
circumspection  in  firing  an  old  musket  when  on  the  line  of  battle 
that  I  had  exercised  in  hunting  squirrels.  But  I  learned  better  in 
about  the  first  five  minutes  of  the  battle  of  Shiloh.  However,  in 
every  action  I  was  in,  when  the  opportunity  was  afforded,  I  took 
careful  and  deliberate  aim,  but  many  a  time  the  surroundings  were 
such  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  hold  low,  and  fire  through 
the  smoke  in  the  direction  of  the  enemy.  I  will  say  here  that  the 
extent  of  wild  shooting  done  in  battle,  especially  by  raw  troops,  is 
astonishing,  and  rather  hard  to  understand.  When  we  fell  back 
to  our  second  line  at  Shiloh,  I  heard  an  incessant  humming  sound 
away  up  above  our  heads,  like  the  flight  of  a  swarm  of  bees.  In 


56  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

my  ignorance,  I  at  first  hardly  knew  what  that  meant,  but  it  pres 
ently  dawned  on  me  that  the  noise  was  caused  by  bullets  singing 
through  the  air  from  twenty  to  a  hundred  feet  over  our  heads. 
And  after  the  battle  I  noticed  that  the  big  trees  in  our  camp,  just 
in  the  rear  of  our  second  line,  were  thickly  pock-marked  by  mus 
ket  balls  at  a  distance  of  fully  a  hundred  feet  from  the  ground. 
And  yet  we  were  separated  from  the  Confederates  only  by  a  little, 
narrow  field,  and  the  intervening  ground  was  perfectly  level.  But 
the  fact  is,  those  boys  were  fully  as  green  as  we  were,  and  doubt 
less  as  much  excited.  The  Confederate  army  at  Shiloh  was  com 
posed  of  soldiers  the  great  majority  of  whom  went  under  fire  there 
for  the  first  time,  and  I  reckon  they  were  as  nervous  and  badly 
scared  as  we  were. 

I  never  shall  forget  how  awfully  I  felt  on  seeing  for  the  first 
time  a  man  killed  in  battle.  This  occurred  on  our  second  position, 
above  mentioned.  Our  line  of  battle  here  was  somewhat  irregular, 
and  the  men  had  become  mixed  up.  The  trees  and  stumps  were 
thick,  and  we  availed  ourselves  of  their  protection  whenever  pos 
sible.  I  had  a  tree,  it  was  embarrassingly  small,  but  better  than 
none.  I  took  to  a  log  later.  But  there  was  a  man  just  on  my  right 
behind  a  tree  of  generous  proportions,  and  I  somewhat  envied  him. 
He  was  actively  engaged  in  loading  and  firing,  and  was  standing  up 
to  the  work  well  when  I  last  saw  him  alive.  But,  all  at  once,  there 
he  was  lying  on  his  back,  at  the  foot  of  his  tree,  with  one  leg  dou 
bled  under  him,  motionless, — anol  stone  dead!  He  probably  had 
been  hit  square  in  the  head  while  aiming,  or  peeking  around  the 
tree.  I  stared  at  his  body,  perfectly  horrified!  Only  a  few  sec 
onds  ago  that  man  was  alive  and  well,  and  now  he  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  done  for,  forever!  The  event  came  nearer  completely  up 
setting  me  than  anything  else  that  occurred  during  the  entire  bat 
tle — but  I  got  used  to  such  incidents  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

After  rallying  at  our  third  position,  we  were  moved  a  short 
distance  to  the  rear,  and  formed  in  line  at  right  angles  to  the  road 
from  our  camp  to  the  landing.  While  standing  there  I  casually  no 
ticed  a  large  wall  tent  at  the  side  of  the  road,  a  few  steps  to  my 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  57 

rear.  It  was  closed  up,  and  nobody  stirring  around  it.  Suddenly 
I  heard,  right  over  our  heads,  a  frightful  "s-s-wis-sh," — and  fol 
lowed  by  a  loud  crash  in  this  tent.  Looking  around,  I  saw  a  big, 
gaping  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  tent,  and  on  the  other  side  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  cause  of  the  disturbance — a  big  cannon  ball  ricochet- 
ting  down  the  ridge,  and  hunting  further  mischief.  And  at  the 
same  moment  of  time  the  front  flaps  of  the  tent  were  frantically 
thrown  open,  and  out  popped  a  fellow  in  citizen's  clothes.  He  had 
a  Hebrew  visage,  his  face  was  as  white  as  a  dead  man's,  and  his 
eyes  were  sticking  out  like  a  crawfish's.  He  started  down  the  road 
toward  the  landing  at  probably  the  fastest  gait  he  had  ever  made 
in  his  life,  his  coat  tails  streaming  behind  him,  and  the  boys  yelling 
at  him.  We  proceeded  to  investigate  the  interior  of  that  tent  at 
once,  and  found  that  it  was  a  sutler's  establishment,  and  crammed 
with  sutler  goods.  The  panic-struck  individual  who  had  just  va 
cated  it  was  of  course  the  proprietor.  He  had  adopted  ostrich 
tactics,  had  buttoned  himself  up  in  the  tent,  and  was  in  there  keep 
ing  as  still  as  a  mouse,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  as  he  could  see  no 
body,  nobody  could  see  him.  That  cannon  ball  must  have  been  a 
rude  surprise.  In  order  to  have  plenty  of  "han'  roomance,"  we 
tore  down  the  tent  at  once,  and  then  proceeded  to  appropriate  the 
contents.  There  were  barrels  of  apples,  bologna  sausages,  cheeses, 
canned  oysters  and  sardines,  and  lots  of  other  truck.  I  was  filling 
my  haversack  with  bologna  when  Col.  Fry  rode  up  to  me  and 
said:  "My  son,  will  you  please  give  me  a  link  of  that  sausage?" 
Under  the  circumstances,  I  reckon  I  must  have  been  feeling  some 
what  impudent  and  reckless,  so  I  answered  rather  saucily,  "Cer 
tainly,  Colonel,  we  are  closing  out  this  morning  below  cost;"  and 
I  thrust  into  his  hands  two  or  three  big  links  of  bologna.  There 
was  a  faint  trace  of  a  grin  on  the  old  man's  face  as  he  took  the 
provender,  and  he  began  gnawing  at  once  on  one  of  the  hunks, 
while  the  others  he  stowed  away  in  his  equipments.  I  suspected 
from  this  incident  that  the  Colonel  had  had  no  breakfast  that 
morning,  which  perhaps  may  have  been  the  case.  Soon  after  this 
I  made  another  deal.  There  were  some  cavalry  in  line  close  by  us, 


58  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

and  one  of  them  called  out  to  me,  "Pardner,  give  me  some  of  them 
apples."  "You  bet;"  said  I,  and  quickly  filling  my  cap  with  the 
fruit,  handed  it  to  him.  He  emptied  the  apples  in  his  haversack, 
took  a  silver  dime  from  his  pocket,  and  proffered  it  to  me,  saying, 
"Here."  "Keep  your  money — don't  want  it;"  was  my  response, 
but  he  threw  the  coin  at  my  feet,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in 
my  pocket.  It  came  agreeably  handy  later. 

Jack  Medford  of  my  company  came  up  to  me  with  a  most  com 
placent  look  on  his  face,  and  patting  his  haversack,  said,  'Lee,  I  just 
now  got  a  whole  lot  of  paper  and  envelopes,  and  am  all  fixed  for 
writing  home  about  this  battle."  "Seems  to  me,  Jack,"  I  suggest 
ed,  "you'd  better  unload  that  stuff,  and  get  something  to  eat.  Don't 
worry  about  writing  home  about  the  battle  till  it's  done  fought." 
Jack's  countenance  changed,  he  muttered,  "Reckon  you're  right, 
Lee;"  and  when  next  I  saw  him,  his  haversack  was  bulging  with 
bologna  and  cheese.  All  this  time  the  battle  was  raging  furiously 
on  our  right,  and  occasionally  a  cannon  ball,  flying  high,  went 
screaming  over  our  heads.  Walter  Scott,  in  "The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  in  describing  an  incident  of  the  battle  of  Beal'  an  Duine, 
speaks  of  the  unearthly  screaming  and  yelling  that  occurred, 
sounding — 

"As  if  all  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell." 

That  comparison  leaves  much  for  the  imagination,  but,  speaking 
from  experience,  I  will  say  that  of  all  the  blood-curdling  sounds  I 
ever  heard,  the  worst  is  the  terrific  scream  of  a  cannon  ball  or  shell 
passing  close  over  one's  head;  especially  that  kind  with  a  cavity 
in  the  base  that  sucks  in  air.  At  least,  they  sounded  that  way  till 
I  got  used  to  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  artillery  in  my  time  was 
not  near  as  dangerous  as  musketry.  It  was  noisy,  but  didn't  kill 
often  unless  at  close  range  and  firing  grape  and  canister. 

As  stated  in  the  preceding  sketch,  sometime  during  the  fore 
noon  the  regiment  was  sent  to  the  support  of  a  battery,  and  re 
mained  there  for  some  hours.  The  most  trying  situation  in  battle 
is  one  where  you  have  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground,  under  fire  more  or 


THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  59 

less,  and  without  any  opportunity  to  return  it.  The  constant 
strain  on  the  nerves  is  almost  intolerable.  So  it  was  with  feelings 
of  grim  but  heart-felt  relief  that  we  finally  heard  the  Colonel  com 
mand,  "Attention,  battalion!"  Our  turn  had  come  at  last.  We 
sprang  to  our  feet  with  alacrity,  and  were  soon  in  motion,  march 
ing  by  the  flank  diagonally  towards  the  left,  from  whence,  for  some 
hours,  had  been  proceeding  heavy  firing.  We  had  not  gone  far  be 
fore  I  saw  something  which  hardly  had  an  inspiring  effect.  We 
were  marching  along  an  old,  grass-grown  country  road,  with  a  rail- 
fence  on  the  right  which  enclosed  a  sort  of  woods  pasture,  and 
with  a  dense  forest  on  our  left,  when  I  saw  a  soldier  on  our  left, 
slowly  making  his  way  to  the  rear.  He  had  been  struck  a  sort  of 
glancing  shot  on  the  left  side  of  his  face,  and  the  skin  and  flesh  of 
his  cheek  were  hanging  in  shreds.  His  face  and  neck  were  covered 
with  blood  and  he  was  a  frightful  sight.  Yet  he  seemed  to  be  per 
fectly  cool  and  composed  and  wasn't  "taking  on"  a  bit.  As  he  came 
opposite  my  company,  he  looked  up  at  us  and  said,  "Give  'em  hell, 
boys !  They've  spoiled  my  beauty."  It  was  manifest  that  he  was 
not  exaggerating. 

When  we  were  thrown  into  line  on  our  new  position  and  be 
gan  firing,  I  was  in  the  front  rank,  and  my  rear  rank  man  was 
Philip  Potter,  a  young  Irishman,  who  was  some  years  my  senior. 
When  he  fired  his  first  shot,  he  came  very  near  putting  me  out  of 
action.  I  think  that  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  could  not  have  been 
more  than  two  or  three  inches  from  my  right  ear.  The  shock  of 
the  report  almost  deafened  me  at  the  time,  and  my  neck  and  right 
cheek  were  peppered  with  powder  grains,  which  remained  there 
for  years  until  finally  absorbed  in  the  system.  I  turned  to  Phil  in 
a  fury,  exclaiming,  "What  in  the  hell  and  damnation  do  you 
mean?"  Just  then  down  went  the  man  on  my  right  with  a  sharp 
cry,  and  followed  by  the  one  on  the  left,  both  apparently  severely 
wounded.  The  thought  of  my  shocking  conduct,  in  thus  indulging 
in  wicked  profanity  at  such  a  time,  flashed  upon  me,  and  I  almost 
held  my  breath,  expecting  summary  punishment  on  the  spot.  But 
nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  And,  according  to  history,  Wash- 


60  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

ington  swore  a  good  deal  worse  at  the  battle  of  Monmouth, — and 
Potter  was  more  careful  thereafter. 

Poor  Phil!  On  December  7,  1864,  while  fighting  on  the  skir 
mish  line  near  Murfreesboro,  Tennessee,  and  just  a  few  paces  to 
my  left,  he  was  mortally  wounded  by  a  gun-shot  in  the  bowels 
and  died  in  the  hospital  a  few  days  later.  He  was  a  Catholic, 
and  in  his  last  hours  was  almost  frantic  because  no  priest  was  at 
hand  to  grant  him  absolution. 

Right  after  we  began  firing  on  this  line  I  noticed,  directly  in 
my  front  and  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards  away,  a  large  Con 
federate  flag  flapping  defiantly  in  the  breeze.  The  smoke  was  too 
dense  to  enable  me  to  see  the  bearer,  but  the  banner  was  distinctly 
visible.  It  looked  hateful  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to  see  it  come  down. 
So  I  held  on  it,  let  my  gun  slowly  fall  until  I  thought  the  sights 
were  about  on  a  waist  line,  and  then  fired.  I  peered  eagerly  under 
the  smoke  to  see  the  effect  of  my  shot, — but  the  blamed  thing  was 
still  flying.  I  fired  three  or  four  more  shots  on  the  same  line  as 
the  first,  but  with  no  apparent  results.  I  then  concluded  that  the 
bearer  was  probably  squatted  behind  a  stump,  or  something,  and 
that  it  was  useless  to  waste  ammunition  on  him.  Diagonally  to  my 
left,  perhaps  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away,  the  Confederate 
line  of  battle  was  in  plain  sight.  It  was  in  the  open,  in  the  edge 
of  an  old  field,  with  woods  to  the  rear.  It  afforded  a  splendid 
mark.  Even  the  ramrods  could  be  seen  flashing  in  the  air,  as  the 
men,  while  in  the  act  of  loading,  drew  and  returned  the  rammers. 
Thereupon  I  began  firing  at  the  enemy  on  that  part  of  the  line, 
and  the  balance  of  the  contents  of  my  cartridge  box  went  in  that 
direction.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  if  any  of  my  shots  took  effect, 
but  after  the  battle  I  went  to  the  spot  and  looked  over  the  ground. 
The  Confederate  dead  lay  there  thick,  and  I  wondered,  as  I  looked 
at  them,  if  I  had  killed  any  of  those  poor  fellows.  Of  course  I 
didn't  know,  and  am  glad  now  that  I  didn't.  And  I  will  say  here 
that  I  do  not  now  have  any  conclusive  knowledge  that  during  my 
entire  term  of  service  I  ever  killed,  or  even  wounded,  a  single  man. 
It  is  more  than  probable  that  some  of  my  shots  were  fatal,  but  I 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  61 

don't  know  it,  and  am  thankful  for  the  ignorance.  You  see,  after 
all,  the  common  soldiers  of  the  Confederate  Armies  were  American 
boys,  just  like  us,  and  conscientiously  believed  that  they  were  right. 
Had  they  been  soldiers  of  a  foreign  nation, — Spaniards,  for  in 
stance, — I  might  feel  differently. 

When  we  "went  in"  on  the  above  mentioned  position  old 
Capt.  Reddish  took  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  fought  like  a  com 
mon  soldier.  He  had  picked  up  the  musket  of  some  dead  or 
wounded  man,  and  filled  his  pockets  with  cartridges  and  gun  caps, 
and  so  was  well  provided  with  ammunition.  He  unbuckled  his 
sword  from  the  belt,  and  laid  it  in  the  scabbard  at  his  feet,  and 
proceeded  to  give  his  undivided  attention  to  the  enemy.  I  can 
now  see  the  old  man  in  my  mind's  eye,  as  he  stood  in  ranks,  load 
ing  and  firing,  his  blue-gray  eyes  flashing,  and  his  face  lighted  up 
with  the  flame  of  battle.  Col.  Fry  happened  to  be  near  us  at  one 
time,  and  I  heard  old  Capt.  John  yell  at  him:  "Injun  fightin,' 
Colonel!  Jest  like  Injun  fightin'!"  When  we  finally  retired,  the 
Captain  shouldered  his  musket  and  trotted  off  with  the  rest  of 
us,  oblivious  of  his  "cheese-knife,"  as  he  called  it,  left  it  lying  on 
the  ground,  and  never  saw  it  again. 

There  was  a  battery  of  light  artillery  on  this  line,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  to  our  right,  on  a  slight  elevation  of  the  ground. 
It  was  right  flush  up  with  the  infantry  line  of  battle,  and  oh,  how 
those  artillery  men  handled  their  guns!  It  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  the  roar  of  a  cannon  from  that  battery  about  every 
other  second.  When  ramming  cartridge,  I  sometimes  glanced  in 
that  direction.  The  men  were  big  fellows,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
their  white  skins  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  and  they  were  working 
like  I  have  seen  men  doing  when  fighting  a  big  fire  in  the  woods. 
I  fairly  gloated  over  the  fire  of  that  battery.  "Give  it  to  them,  my 
sons  of  thunder !"  I  would  say  to  myself ;  "Knock  the  ever-lastin' 
stuff  in'  out  of  'em !"  And,  as  I  ascertained  after  the  battle,  they 
did  do  frightful  execution. 

In  consideration  of  the  fact  that  now-a-days,  as  you  know,  I 
refuse  to  even  kill  a  chicken,  some  of  the  above  expressions  may 


62  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

sound  rather  strange.  But  the  fact  is,  a  soldier  on  the  fighting 
line  is  possessed  by  the  demon  of  destruction.  He  wants  to  kill, 
and  the  more  of  his  adversaries  he  can  see  killed,  the  more  in 
tense  his  gratification.  Gen.  Grant  somewhere  in  his  Memoirs  ex 
presses  the  idea  (only  in  milder  language  than  mine)  when  he 
says: 

"While  a  battle  is  raging  one  can  see  his  enemy  mowed  down 
by  the  thousand,  or  the  ten  thousand,  with  great  composure." 

The  regiment  bivouacked  for  the  night  on  the  bluff,  not  far 
from  the  historic  "log  house."  Rain  set  in  about  dark,  and  not 
wanting  to  lie  in  the  water,  I  hunted  around  and  found  a  little 
brush-pile  evidently  made  by  some  man  from  a  sapling  he  had  cut 
down  and  trimmed  up  some  time  past  when  the  leaves  were  on 
the  trees.  I  made  a  sort  of  pillow  out  of  my  gun,  cartridge  box, 
haversack  and  canteen,  and  stretched  myself  out  on  the  brush-pile, 
tired  to  death,  and  rather  discouraged  over  the  events  of  the  day. 
The  main  body  of  Buell's  men, — "the  army  of  the  Ohio," — soon 
after  dark  began  ascending  the  bluff  at  a  point  a  little  above  the 
landing,  and  forming  in  line  in  the  darkness  a  short  distance  be 
yond.  I  have  a  shadowy  impression  that  this  lasted  the  greater 
part  of  the  night.  Their  regimental  bands  played  continuously 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  all  played  the  tune  of  "The  Girl  I 
Left  Behind  Me."  And  the  rain  drizzled  down,  while  every  fifteen 
minutes  one  of  the  big  navy  guns  roared  and  sent  a  ponderous  shell 
shrieking  up  the  ravine  above  in  the  direction  of  the  enemy.  To 
this  day,  whenever  I  hear  an  instrumental  band  playing  "The  Girl 
I  Left  Behind  Me,"  there  come  to  me  the  memories  of  that  gloomy 
Sunday  night  at  Pittsburg  Landing.  I  again  hear  the  ceaseless 
patter  of  the  rain,  the  dull,  heavy  tread  of  Buell's  marching 
columns,  the  thunderous  roar  of  the  navy  guns,  the  demoniacal 
scream  of  the  projectile,  and  mingled  with  it  all  is  the  sweet, 
plaintive  music  of  that  old  song.  We  had  an  army  version  of  it  I 
have  never  seen  in  print,  altogether  different  from  the  original  bal 
lad.  The  last  stanza  of  this  army  production  was  as  follows : 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  63 

"If  ever  I  get  through  this  war, 
And  a  Rebel  ball  don't  find  me, 
I'll  shape  my  course  by  the  northern  star, 
To  the  girl  I  left  behind  me." 

I  have  said  elsewhere  that  the  regiment  was  not  engaged  on 
Monday.  We  remained  all  that  day  at  the  place  where  we  biv 
ouacked  Sunday  night.  The  ends  of  the  staffs  of  our  regimental 
flags  were  driven  in  the  ground,  the  banners  flapping  idly  in  the 
breeze,  while  the  men  sat  or  lay  around  with  their  guns  in  their 
hands  or  lying  by  them,  their  cartridge-boxes  -buckled  on,  and  all 
ready  to  fall  in  line  at  the  tap  of  the  drum.  But  for  some  rea 
son  that  I  never  knew,  we  were  not  called  on.  Our  division  com 
mander,  General  B.  M.  Prentiss,  and  our  brigade  commander,  Col. 
Madison  Miller,  were  both  captured  on  Sunday  with  the  bulk  of 
Prentiss'  division,  so  I  reckon  we  were  sort  of  "lost  children."  But 
we  were  not  alone.  There  were  also  other  regiments  of  Grant's 
command  which  were  held  in  reserve  and  did  not  fire  a  shot  on 
Monday. 

After  the  battle  I  roamed  around  over  the  field,  the  most  of 
the  following  two  days,  looking  at  what  was  to  be  seen.  The  fear 
ful  sights  apparent  on  a  bloody  battlefield  simply  cannot  be  de 
scribed  in  all  their  horror.  They  must  be  seen  in  order  to  be  fully 
realized.  As  Byron,  somewhere  in  "Don  Juan,"  truly  says: 

"Mortality!     Thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills, 
Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick, 
Like  the  death-watch,  within  our  ears  the  ills 
Past,  present,  and  to  come;  but  all  may  yield 
To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battlefield." 

There  was  a  &mall  clearing  on  the  battlefield  called  the 
"Peach  Orchard"  field.  It  was  of  irregular  shape,  and  about  fif 
teen  or  twenty  acres  in  extent,  as  I  remember.  However,  I  can 
not  now  be  sure  as  to  the  exact  size.  It  got  its  name,  probably, 
from  the  fact  that  there  were  on  it  a  few  scraggy  peach  trees.  The 
Union  troops  on  Sunday  had  a  strong  line  in  the  woods  just  north 
of  the  field,  and  the  Confederates  made  four  successive  charges 


64  THE  STORY  OF. A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

across  this  open  space  on  our  line,  all  of  which  were  repulsed  with 
frightful  slaughter.  I  walked  all  over  this  piece  of  ground  the 
day  after  the  close  of  the  battle,  and  before  the  dead  had  been 
buried.  It  is  the  simple  truth  to  say  that  this  space  was  literally 
covered  with  the  Confederate  dead,  and  one  could  have  walked  all 
over  it  on  their  bodies.  Gen.  Grant,  in  substance,  makes  the  same 
statement  in  his  Memoirs.  It  was  a  fearful  sight.  But  not  far 
from  the  Peach  Orchard  field,  in  a  westerly  direction,  was  a  still 
more  gruesome  spectacle.  Some  of  our  forces  were  in  line  on  an  old, 
grass-grown  country  road  that  ran  through  thick  woods.  The 
wheels  of  wagons,  running  for  many  years  right  in  the  same  ruts, 
had  cut  through  the  turf,  so  that  the  surface  of  the  road  was  some 
what  lower  than  the  adjacent  ground.  To  men  firing  on  their 
knees  this  afforded  a  slight  natural  breast-work,  which  was  sub 
stantial  protection.  In  front  of  this  position,  in  addition  to  thf 
large  timber,  was  a  dense  growth  of  small  under-brush,  post-oak 
and  the  like,  which  had  not  yet  shed  their  leaves,  and  the  ground 
also  was  covered  with  layers  of  dead  leaves.  There  was  desperate 
fighting  at  this  point,  and  during  its  progress  exploding  shells  set 
the  woods  on  fire.  The  clothing  of  the  dead  Confederates  lying  in 
these  woods  caught  fire,  and  their  bodies  were  burned  to  a  crisp. 
I  have  read,  somewhere,  that  some  wounded  men  were  burned  to 
death,  but  I  doubt  that.  I  walked  all  over  the  ground  looking  at 
these  poor  fellows,  and  scrutinized  them  carefully  to  see  the  nature 
of  their  hurts  and  they  had  evidently  been  shot  dead,  or  expired  in 
a  few  seconds  after  being  struck.  But,  in  any  event,  the  sight  was 
horrible.  I  will  not  go  into  details,  but  leave  it  to  your  imagination. 
I  noticed,  at  other  places  on  the  field,  the  bodies  of  two  Con 
federate  soldiers,  whose  appearance  I  shall  never  forget.  They 
presented  a  remarkable  contrast  of  death  in  battle.  One  was  a  full 
grown  man,  seemingly  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with  sandy,  red 
dish  hair,  and  a  scrubby  beard  and  mustache  of  the  same  color. 
He  had  been  firing  from  behind  a  tree,  had  exposed  his  head,  and 
had  been  struck  square  in  the  forehead  by  a  musket  ball,  killed  in 
stantly,  and  had  dropped  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  in  a  heap.  He  was 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  65 

in  the  act  of  biting  a  cartridge  when  struck,  his  teeth  were  still 
fastened  on  the  paper  extremity,  while  his  right  hand  clutched  the 
bullet  end.  His  teeth  were  long  and  snaggy,  and  discolored  by  to 
bacco  juice.  As  just  stated,  he  had  been  struck  dead  seemingly  in 
stantaneously.  His  eyes  were  wide  open  and  gleaming  with  Satan 
ic  fury.  His  transition  from  life  to  death  had  been  immediate,  with 
the  result  that  there  was  indelibly  stamped  on  his  face  all  the  furi 
ous  rage  and  lust  of  battle.  He  was  an  ill-looking  fellow,  and  all 
in  all  was  not  an  agreeable  object  to  contemplate.  The  other  was 
a  far  different  case.  He  was  lying  on  a  sloping  ridge,  where  the 
Confederates  had  charged  a  battery,  and  had  suffered  fearfully. 
He  was  a  mere  boy,  not  over  eighteen,  with  regular  features,  light 
brown  hair,  blue  eyes,  and,  generally  speaking,  was  strikingly 
handsome.  He  had  been  struck  on  his  right  leg,  above  the  knee, 
about  mid-way  the  thigh,  by  a  cannon  ball,  which  had  cut  off  the 
limb,  except  a  small  strip  of  skin.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  at 
full  length,  his  right  arm  straight  up  in  the  air,  rigid  as  a  stake, 
and  his  fist  tightly  clinched.  His  eyes  were  wide  open,  but  their 
expression  was  calm  and  natural.  The  shock  and  the  loss  of  blood 
doubtless  brought  death  to  his  relief  in  a  short  time.  As  I  stood 
looking  at  the  unfortunate  boy,  I  thought  of  how  some  poor  moth 
er's  heart  would  be  well-nigh  broken  when  she  heard  of  the  sad, 
untimely  fate  of  her  darling  son.  But,  before  the  war  was  over, 
doubtless  thousands  of  similar  cases  occurred  in  both  the  Union 
and  Confederate  armies. 

I  believe  I  will  here  speak  of  a  notion  of  mine,  to  be  consid 
ered  for  whatever  you  may  think  it  worth.  As  you  know,  I  am  not 
a  religious  man,  in  the  theological  sense  of  the  term,  having  never 
belonged  to  a  church  in  my  life.  Have  just  tried,  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  to  act  according  to  the  Golden  Rule,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
But,  from  my  earliest  youth,  I  have  had  a  peculiar  reverence  for 
Sunday.  I  hunted  much  with  a  gun  when  a  boy,  and  so  did  the 
people  generally  of  my  neighborhood.  Small  game  in  that  back 
woods  region  was  very  plentiful,  and  even  deer  were  not  uncom 
mon.  Well,  it  was  a  settled  conviction  with  us  primitive  people 


66  THE  STORY  OF  M   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

that  if  one  went  hunting  on  Sunday,  he  would  not  only  have  bad 
luck  in  that  regard  that  day,  but  also  all  the  rest  of  the  week.  So, 
when  the  Confederates  began  the  battle  on  Sunday,  I  would  keep 
thinking,  throughout  its  entire  progress,  "You  fellows  started  this 
on  Sunday,  and  you'll  get  licked."  I'll  admit  that  there  were  a  few 
occasions  when  things  looked  so  awful  bad  that  I  became  dis 
couraged,  but  I  quickly  rallied,  and  my  Sunday  superstition — or 
whatever  it  may  be  called — was  justified  in  the  end.  In  addition 
to  Shiloh,  the  battles  of  New  Orleans  in  1815,  Waterloo,  and  Bull 
Run  were  fought  on  a  Sunday,  and  in  each  case  the  attacking  par 
ty  was  signally  defeated.  These  results  may  have  been  mere  coin 
cidences,  but  I  don't  think  so.  I  have  read  somewhere  an  authentic 
statement  that  President  Lincoln  entertained  this  same  belief,  and 
always  was  opposed  to  aggressive  movements  on  Sundays  by  the 
Union  troops. 

The  wildest  possible  rumors  got  into  circulation  at  home, 
about  some  of  the  results  of  the  battle.  I  have  now  lying  before 
me  an  old  letter  from  my  father  of  date  April  19th,  in  answer  to 
mine  (which  I  will  mention  later)  giving  him  the  first  definite 
intelligence  about  our  regiment  and  the  neighorhood  boys.  Among 
other  things  he  said:  "We  have  had  it  here  that  Fry's  regiment 
was  all  captured  that  was  not  killed ;  pretty  much  all  given  up  as 
lost.  That  Beauregard  had  run  you  all  down  a  steep  place  into 
the  Tennessee  river,  *  *  *  that  Captain  Reddish  had  his  arm 
shot  off,  that  Enoch  Wallace  was  also  wounded ;" — and  here  fol 
lowed  the  names  of  some  others  who  (the  same  as  Reddish  and  Wal 
lace)  hadn't  received  even  a  scratch.  My  letter  to  my  father, 
mentioned  above,  was  dated  April  10,  and  was  received  by  him  on 
the  18th.  It  was  brief,  occupying  only  about  four  pages  of  the 
small,  sleazy  note  paper  that  we  bought  in  those  days  of  the  sut 
lers.  I  don't  remember  why  I  didn't  write  sooner,  but  it  was  prob 
ably  because  no  mail-boat  left  the  landing  until  about  that  time. 
The  old  mail  hack  ordinarily  arrived  at  the  Otter  Creek  post-office 
from  the  outside  world  an  hour  or  so  before  sundown,  and  the 
evening  my  letter  came,  the  little  old  post-office  and  general  store 


THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  67 

was  crowded  with  people  intensely  anxious  to  hear  from  their 
boys  or  other  relatives  in  the  61st  Illinois.  The  distribution  of 
letters  in  that  office  in  those  times  was  a  proceeding  of  much  sim 
plicity.  The  old  clerk  who  attended  to  that  would  call  out  in  a 
stentorian  tone  the  name  of  the  addressee  of  each  letter,  who,  if 
present,  would  respond  "Here !"  and  then  the  letter  would  be  given 
a  dexterous  flip,  and  went  flying  to  him  across  the  room.  But  on 
this  occasion  there  were  no  letters  from  the  regiment,  until  just 
at  the  last  the  clerk  called  my  father's  name— "J.  0.  Stillwell!" 
and  again,  still  louder,  but  there  was  no  response.  Whereupon  the 
clerk  held  the  letter  at  arm's  length,  and  carefully  scrutinized  the 
address.  "Well,"  said  he  finally,  "this  is  from  Jerry  Stillwell's 
boy,  in  the  61st,  so  I  reckon  he's  not  killed,  anyhow."  A  murmur 
of  excitement  went  through  the  room  at  this,  and  the  people 
crowded  up  to  get  a  glimpse  of  even  the  handwriting  of  the  ad 
dress.  "Yes,  that's  from  Jerry's  boy,  sure,"  said  several.  There 
upon  William  Noble  and  Joseph  Beeman,  who  were  old  friends  of 
father's,  begged  the  postmaster  to  "give  them  the  letter,  and  they 
would  go  straight  out  to  Stillwell's  with  it,  have  him  read  it,  and 
then  they  would  come  right  back  with  the  news."  Everybody  sec 
onded  the  request,  the  postmaster  acceded,  and  handed  one  of 
them  the  letter.  They  rushed  out,  unfastened  their  horses,  and 
left  in  a  gallop  for  Stillwell's,  two  miles  away,  on  the  south  side  of 
Otter  Creek,  out  in  the  woods.  As  they  dashed  up  to  the  little 
old  log  cabin  they  saw  my  father  out  near  the  barn ;  the  one  with 
the  letter  waved  it  aloft,  calling  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  "Letter 
from  your  boy,  Jerry!"  My  mother  heard  this,  and  she  came 
running  from  the  house,  trembling  with  excitement.  The  letter 
was  at  once  opened  and  read, — and  the  terrible  reports  which  to 
that  time  had  prevailed  about  the  fate  of  Fry's  regiment  vanished 
in  the  air.  It's  true,  it  contained  some  sad  news,  but  nothing  to  be 
compared  with  the  fearful  accounts  which  had  been  rife  in  the 
neighborhood.  I  have  that  old  letter  in  my  possession  now. 

Soon  after  the  battle  Gov.    Richard   Yates,   of   Illinois,    Gov. 
Louis  P.  Harvey,  of  Wisconsin,  and  many  other  civilians,  came 


68  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

down  from  the  north  to  look  after  the  comfort  of  the  sick  and 
wounded  soldiers  of  their  respective  states.    The  16th  Wisconsin 
Infantry  was  camped  next  to  us,  and  I  learned  one  afternoon  that 
Gov.  Harvey  was  to  make  them  a  speech  that  evening,  after  dress 
parade,  and  I  went  over  to  hear  him.    The  Wisconsin  regiment  did 
not  turn  out  in  military  formation,  just  gathered  around  him  in  a 
dense  group  under  a  grove  of  trees.    The  Governor  sat  on  a  horse 
while  making  his  speech.     He  wore  a  large,  broad-brimmed  hat, 
his  coat  was  buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  he  had  big  buckskin  gaunt 
lets  on  his  hands.    He  was  a  fine  looking  man,  heavy  set,  and  about 
forty-two  years  old.    His  remarks    were   not   lengthy,    but   were 
patriotic  and  eloquent.     I  remember  especially  how    he    compli 
mented  the  Wisconsin  soldiers  for  their  good  conduct  in  battle, 
that  their  state  was  proud  of  them,  and  that  he,  as  Governor,  in 
tended  to  look  after  them,  and  care  for  them  to  the  very  best  of 
his  ability,  as  long  as  he  was  in  office,  and  that  when  the  time 
came  for  him  to  relinquish  that  trust,  he  would  still  remember 
them  with  interest  and  the  deepest  affection.    His  massive  frame 
heaved  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings  as  he  spoke,  and  he  im 
pressed  me  as  being  absolutely  sincere  in  all  that  he  said.    But  he 
little  knew  nor  apprehended  the  sad  and  lamentable  fate  then  pend 
ing  over  him.    Only  a  few  evenings  later,  as  he  was  crossing  the 
gang-plank  between  two  steamboats  at  the  Landing,  in  some  man 
ner  he  fell  from  the  plank,  and  was  sucked  under  the  boats  by  the 
current,  and  drowned.     Some  days  later  a  negro  found  his  body, 
lodged  against  some  drift   near   our   side    of   the   river,    and    he 
brought  it  in  his  old  cart  inside  our  lines.     From  papers    on    the 
body,  and  other  evidence,  it  was  conclusively  identified  as  that  of 
Gov.  Harvey.     The    remains    were    shipped    back    to    Wisconsin, 
where  they  were  given  a  largely  attended  and  impressive  funeral. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SIEGE  OF   CORINTH.— IN   CAMP   AT   OWL   CREEK.— 
APRIL  AND  MAY,  1862. 

A  few  days  after  the  battle  Gen.  H.  W.  Halleck  came  down 
from  St.  Louis,  and  assumed  command  of  the  Union  forces  in  the 
field  near  Pittsburg  Landing.  Then,  or  soon  thereafter,  began  the 
so-called  siege  of  Corinth.  We  mighty  near  dug  up  all  the  country 
within  eight  or  ten  miles  of  that  place  in  the  progress  of  this 
movement,  in  the  construction  of  forts,  long  lines  of  breast-works, 
and  such  like.  Halleck  was  a  "book  soldier,"  and  had  a  high  repu 
tation  during  the  war  as  a  profound  "strategist,"  and  great  mili 
tary  genius  in  general.  In  fact,  in  my  opinion  (and  which,  I 
think,  is  sustained  by  history),  he  was  a  humbug  and  a  fraud. 
His  idea  seemed  to  be  that  our  war  should  be  conducted  strictly  in 
accordance  with  the  methods  of  the  old  Napoleonic  wars  of  Eu 
rope,  which,  in  the  main,  were  not  at  all  adapted  to  our  time  and 
conditions.  Moreover,  he  seemed  to  be  totally  deficient  in  sound, 
practical  common  sense.  Soon  after  the  Confederates  evacuated 
Corinth  he  was  transferred  to  Washington  to  serve  in  a  sort  of 
.  advisory  capacity,  and  spent  the  balance  of  the  war  period  in  a 
swivel-chair  in  an  office.  He  never  was  in  a  battle,  and  never 
heard  #  gun  fired,  except  distant  cannonading  during  the  Corinth 
business, — and  (maybe)  at  Washington  in  the  summer  of  1864. 

During  the  operations  against  Corinth,  the  61st  made  some 
short  marches,  and  was  shifted  around,  from  time  to  time,  to 
different  places.  About  the  middle  of  May  we  were  sent  to  a  point 
on  Owl  creek,  in  the  right  rear  of  the  main  army.  Our  duty  there 
was  to  guard  against  any  possible  attack  from  that  direction,  and 
our  main  employment  was  throwing  up  breast-works  and  standing 
*  picket.  And  all  this  time  the  sick  list  was  frightfully  large.  The 


70  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

chief  trouble  was  our  old  enemy,  camp  diarrhea,  but  there  were 
also  other  types  of  diseases — malaria  and  the  like.  As  before 
stated,  the  boys  had  not  learned  how  to  cook,  nor  to  take  proper 
care  of  themselves,  and  to  this  ignorance  can  be  attributed  much  of 
the  sickness.  And  the  weather  was  rainy,  the  camps  were  muddy 
and  gloomy,  and  about  this  time  many  of  the  boys  had  home-sick 
ness  bad.  A  genuine  case  of  downright  home-sickness  is  most  de 
pressing.  I  had  some  touches  of  it  myself,  so  I  can  speak  from  ex 
perience.  The  poor  fellows  would  sit  around  in  their  tents,  and 
whine,  and  talk  about  home,  and  what  good  things  they  would  have 
there  to  eat,  and  kindred  subjects,  until  apparently  they  lost  every 
spark  of  energy.  I  kept  away  from  such  cases  all  I  could,  for  their 
talk  was  demoralizing.  But  one  rainy  day  while  in  camp  at  Owl 
creek  I  was  in  our  big  Sibley  tent  when  some  of  the  boys  got  well 
started  on  their  pet  topics.  It  was  a  dismal  day,  the  rain  was  pat 
tering  down  on  the  tent  and  dripping  from  the  leaves  of  the  big 
oak  trees  in  the  camp,  while  inside  the  tent  everything  was  damp 
and  mouldy  and  didn't  smell  good  either.  "Jim,"  says  one,  "I  wish  I 
could  jest  be  down  on  Coon  crick  today,  and  take  dinner  with  old 
Bill  Williams ;  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  have :  first,  a  great  big  slice  of 
fried  ham,  with  plenty  of  rich  brown  gravy,  with  them  light,  fluffy, 
hot  biscuits  that  Bill's  wife  could  cook  so  well,  and  then  I'd  want 
some  big  baked  Irish  'taters,  red  hot,  and  all  mealy,  and  then — " 
"Yes,  Jack,"  interrupted  Jim,  "I've  et  at  old  Bill's  lots  of  times,  and 
wouldn't  I  like  to  be  with  you?  You  know,  old  Bill  always  mast- 
fed  the  hogs  he  put  up  for  his  own  eatin',  they  jest  fattened  on 
hickory  nuts  and  big  white-  and  bur-oak  acorns,  and  he'd  smoke 
his  meat  with  hickory  wood  smoke,  and  oh,  that  meat  was  jest  so 
sweet  and  nutty-like! — why,  the  meat  of  corn-fed  hogs  was  no 
where  in  comparison."  "Yes,  Jim,"  continued  Jack,  "and  then  I'd 
want  with  the  biscuits  and  'taters  plenty  of  that  rich  yaller  butter 
that  Bill's  wife  made  herself,  with  her  own  hands,  and  then  you 
know  Bill  always  had  lots  of  honey,  and  I'd  spread  honey  and  but 
ter  on  one  of  them  biscuits,  and  — "  "And  don't  you  remember, 
Jack,"  chimed  in  Jim,  "the  mince  pies  Bill's  wife  could  make? 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  71 

They  were  jest  stuffed  with  reezons,  and  all  manner  of  goodies, 
and  -         But  here  I  left  the  tent  in  disgust.    I  wanted  to  say,  "Oh, 
hell !"  as  I  went  out,  but  refrained.     The  poor  fellows  were  feeling 
bad  enough,  anyhow,  and  it  wouldn't  have  helped  matters  to  make 
sarcastic  remarks.    But  I  preferred  the  shelter  of  a  big  tree,  and 
enduring  the  rain  that  filtered  through  the  leaves,  rather  than  lis 
ten  to  this  distracting  talk  of  Jack  and  Jim  about  the  flesh-pots  of 
old  Bill  Williams.    But  while  on  this  subject,  I  believe  I'll  tell  you 
about  a  royal  dinner  I  had  myself  while  the  regiment  was  near 
Pittsburg  Landing.    It  was  a  few  days  after  the  battle,  while  we 
were  still  at  our  old  camp.    I  was  detailed,  as  corporal,  to  take  six 
men  and  go  to  the  Landing  and  load  three  or  four  of    our    regi 
mental  wagons  with  army  rations  for  our  regiment.     We  reached 
the  Landing  about  ten  o'clock,  reported  to  the  proper  officer,  who 
showed  us  our  stuff,  and  we  went  to  piling  it  into  the  wagons.    It 
consisted  of  big  slabs  of  fat  side-bacon   ("sow-belly"),  boxes  of 
hardtack,  sacks  of  rice,  beans,  coffee,  sugar,  and  soap  and  candles. 
I  had  an  idea  that  I  ought  to  help  in  the  work,  and  was  trying  to 
do  so,  altho  so  weak  from  illness  that  it  required  some  effort  to 
walk  straight.     But  a  big,  black  haired,  black  bearded  Irishman, 
Owen  McGrath  of  my  company,  one  of  the  squad,  objected.  He  laid 
a  big  hand  kindly  on  my  shoulder,  and  said :  "Carparral,  yez  is  not 
sthrong  enough  for  this  worrk,  and  yez  don't  have  to  do  it,  ayether. 
Jist  give  me  the  't'ority  to  shupirintind  it,  and  you  go  sit  down." 
"I  guess  you're  right,  McGrath,"    I  answered,  and  then,  in  a  louder 
tone,  for  the  benefit  of  the  detail,  "McGrath,  you  see  to  the  load 
ing  of  the  grub.     I  am  feeling  a  little  out  of  sorts,"   (which  was 
true,)  "and  I  believe  I'll  take  a  rest."     McGrath  was  about  thirty 
years  old,  and  a  splendid  soldier.    He  had  served  a  term   in  the 
British  army  in  the  old  country,  and  was   fully  onto  his  present 
job.     (I  will  tell  another  little  story  about  him  later.)     I  sat  down 
in  the  shade  a  short  distance  from  my     squad,     with     my     back 
against  some  big  sacks  full  of  something.     Suddenly  I  detected  a 
pungent,  most  agreeable  smell.     It  came  from  onions,  in  the  sack 
behind  me.     I  took  out  my  pocket  knife  and  stealthily  made  a  hole 


72  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

in  that  sack,  and  abstracted  two  big  ones  and  slipped  them  into 
my  haversack.  My  conscience  didn't  trouble  me  a  bit  over  the 
matter.  I  reckon  those  onions  were  hospital  goods,  but  I  thought 
I  needed  some  just  as  much  as  anybody  in  the  hospital,  which  was 
probably  correct.  I  had  asked  Capt.  Reddish  that  morning  if, 
when  the  wagons  were  loaded,  I  could  send  them  on  to  camp,  and 
return  at  my  leisure  in  the  evening,  and  the  kindhearted  old  man 
had  given  a  cheerful  consent.  So,  when  the  teams  were  ready  to 
start  back,  I  told  McGrath  to  take  charge,  and  to  see  that  the  stuff 
was  delivered  to  our  quartermaster,  or  the  commissary  sergeant, 
and  then  I  shifted  for  myself,  planning  for  the  good  dinner  that 
was  in  prospect.  There  were  many  steamboats  lying  at  the  Land 
ing,  I  selected  one  that  looked  inviting,  went  on  board,  and  saun 
tered  aft  to  the  cook's  quarters.  It  was  near  dinner  time,  and  the 
grub  dispenser  was  in  the  act  of  taking  from  his  oven  a  number  of 
nice  cakes  of  corn  bread.  I  sidled  up  to  him,  and  displaying  that 
dime  the  cavalryman  gave  me  for  those  apples,  asked  him  in  a  dis 
creetly  low  tone,  if  he  would  let  me  have  a  cake  of  corn  bread.  He 
gave  a  friendly  grin,  pushed  a  cake  towards  me,  I  slipped  it  in  my 
haversack,  and  handed  him  the  dime.  Now  I  was  fixed.  I  went 
ashore,  and  down  the  river  for  a  short  distance  to  a  spring  I  knew 
of,  that  bubbled  from  the  ground  near  the  foot  of  a  big  beech  tree. 
It  did  not  take  long  to  build  a  little  fire  and  make  coffee  in  my 
oyster  can  of  a  quart's  capacity,  with  a  wire  bale  attachment. 
Then  a  slice  of  sow-belly  was  toasted  on  a  stick,  the  outer  skin  of 
the  onions  removed — and  dinner  was  ready.  Talk  about  your  gas 
tronomic  feasts!  I  doubt  if  ever  in  my  life  I  enjoyed  a  meal  bet 
ter  than  this  one,  under  that  old  beech,  by  the  Tennessee  river. 
The  onions  were  big  red  ones,  and  fearfully  strong,  but  my  system 
craved  them  so  much  that  I  just  chomped  them  down  as  if  they 
were  apples.  And  every  crumb  of  the  corn  bread  was  eaten,  too. 
Dinner  over,  I  felt  better,  and  roamed  around  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon,  sight-seeing,  and  didn't  get  back  to  camp  till  nearly  sun 
down.  By  the  way,  that  spring  and  that  beech  tree  are  there  yet, 
or  were  in  October,  1914,  when  I  visited  the  Shiloh  battlefield.  I 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  73 

hunted  them  up  on  this  occasion  and  laid  down  on  the  ground  and 
took  a  long,  big  drink  out  of  the  spring  for  the  sake  of  old  times. 
Taking  up  again  the  thread  of  our  life  in  camp  at  Owl  creek, 
I  will  say  that  when  there  I  was  for  a  while  in  bad  physical  condi 
tion,  and  nearly  "all  in."  One  day  I  accidentally  overheard  two  in 
telligent  boys  of  my  company  talking  about  me,  and  one  said,  "If 
Stillwell  aint  sent  north  purty  soon,  he's  goin'  to  make  a  die  of  it;" 
to  which  the  other  assented.  That  scared  me  good,  and  set  me  to 
thinking.  I  had  no  use  for  the  hospital,  wouldn't  go  there,  and 
abominated  the  idea  of  taking  medicine.  But  I  was  so  bad  off  I 
was  not  marked  for  duty,  my  time  was  all  my  own,  so  I  concluded 
to  get  out  of  camp  as  much  as  possible,  and  take  long  walks  in  the 
big  woods.  I  found  a  place  down  on  the  creek  between  two  picket 
posts  where  it  was  easy  to  sneak  through  and  get  out  into  the 
country,  and  I  proceeded  to  take  advantage  of  it.  It  was  where  a 
big  tree  had  fallen  across  the  stream,  making  a  sort  of  natural 
bridge,  and  I  "run  the  line"  there  many  a  time.  It  was  delightful 
to  get  out  into  the  clean,  grand  old  woods,  and  away  from  the  mud, 
and  filth,  and  bad  smells  of  the  camp,  and  my  health  began  to  im 
prove.  On  some  of  these  rambles,  Frank  Gates,  a  corporal  of  my 
company,  was  my  companion.  He  was  my  senior  a  few  years,  a 
lively  fellow,  with  a  streak  of  humor  in  him,  and  was  good  com 
pany.  One  day  on  one  of  our  jaunts  we  came  to  a  little  old  log 
house  near  the  foot  of  a  densely  timbered  ridge.  There  was  no 
body  at  home  save  some  women  and  children,  and  one  of  the  wom 
en  was  engaged  on  an  old-fashioned  churn,  churning  butter.  Mul 
berries  were  ripe,  and  there  was  a  large  tree  in  the  yard  fairly 
black  with  the  ripe  fruit.  We  asked  the  women  if  we  could  eat 
some  of  the  berries,  and  they  gave  a  cheerful  consent.  Thereupon 
Frank  and  I  climbed  the  tree,  and  proceeded  to  help  ourselves. 
The  berries  were  big,  dead  ripe,  and  tasted  mighty  good,  and 
we  just  stuffed  ourselves  until  we  could  hold  no  more.  The  churn 
ing  was  finished  by  the  time  we  descended  from  the  tree,  and  we 
asked  for  some  buttermilk.  The  women  gave  us  a  gourd  dipper 
and  told  us  to  help  ourselves,  which  we  did,  and  drank  copiously 


74  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

and  greedily.  We  then  resumed  our  stroll,  but  before  long  were 
seized  with  most  horrible  pains  in  our  stomachs.  We  laid  down  on 
the  ground  and  rolled  over  and  over  in  agony.  It  was  a  hot  day, 
we  had  been  walking  rapidly,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  mulber 
ries  and  the  buttermilk  were  in  a  state  of  insurrection.  But  Fhink 
didn't  think  so.  As  he  rolled  over  the  ground  with  his  hands  on 

his  bulging  stomach  he  exclaimed  to  me,  "Lee,  by ,  I  believe 

them  -  -  Secesh  wimmen  have  pizened  us !"  At  the  time  I  hard 
ly  knew  what  to  think, — but  relief  came  at  last.  I  will  omit  the 
details.  When  able  to  navigate,  we  started  back  to  camp,  almost 
as  weak  and  helpless  as  a  brace  of  sick  kittens.  After  that  I 
steered  clear  of  any  sort  of  a  combination  of  berries  and  butter 
milk. 

Soon  after  this  Frank  and  I  had  another  adventure  outside 
the  picket  lines,  but  of  an  amusing  nature  only.  We  came  to  an  old 
log  house  where,  as  was  usual  at  this  time  and  locality,  the  only  oc 
cupants  were  women  and  children.  The  family  consisted  of  the 
middle-aged  mother,  a  tall,  slab-sided,  long  legged  girl,  seemingly 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old,  and  some  little  children.  Their  sur 
name  was  Leadbetter,  which  I  have  always  remembered  by  reason 
of  the  incident  I  will  mention.  The  house  was  a  typical  pioneer 
cabin,  with  a  puncheon  floor,  which  was  uneven,  dirty,  and 
splotched  with  grease.  The  girl  was  bare-footed  and  wearing  a 
dirty  white  sort  of  cotton  gown  of  the  modern  Mother  Hubbard 
type,  that  looked  a  good  deal  like  a  big  gunny  sack.  From  what 
came  under  my  observation  later,  it  can  safely  be  stated  that  it  was 
the  only  garment  she  had  on.  She  really  was  not  bad  looking,  only 
dirty  and  mighty  slouchy.  We  wanted  some  butter,  and  asked  the 
matron  if  she  had  any  she  could  sell  us.  She  replied  that  they 
were  just  going  to  churn,  and  if  we'd  wait  until  that  was  done, 
she  could  furnish  us  a  little.  We  waited,  and  when  the  job  was  fin 
ished,  handed  the  girl  a  pint  tin  cup  we  had  brought  along,  which 
she  proceeded  to  fill  with  the  butter.  As  she  walked  towards  us  to 
hand  over  the  cup,  her  bare  feet  slipped  on  a  grease  spot  on  the 
floor,  and  down  she  went  on  her  back,  with  her  gown  distinctly 


THE   STORY   OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  75 

elevated,  and  a  prodigal  display  of  limbs.  At  the  same  time  the 
cup  fell  from  her  grasp,  and  the  contents  rolled  out  on  the  dirty 
floor,  like  melted  lard.  The  girl  arose  to  a  sitting  posture,  sur 
veyed  the  wreck,  then  laid  down  on  one  side,  and  exploded  with 
laughter — and  kicked.  About  this  time  her  mother  appeared  on 
the  scene.  "Why,  Sal  Leadbetter!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  dirty  slut! 
Git  a  spoon  and  scrape  that  butter  right  up !"  Sal  rose  (cow 
fashion)  to  her  feet,  still  giggling  over  the  mishap,  and  the  butter 
was  duly  "scraped"  up,  restored  to  the  cup,  and  this  time  safely  de 
livered.  We  paid  for  the  "dairy  product,"  and  left,  but  I  told 
Frank  I  wanted  none  of  it  in  mine.  Frank  responded  in  SUD- 
stance,  that  it  was  all  right,  every  man  had  to  eat  his  "peck  of 
dirt"  in  his  life  time  anyway, — and  the  incident  was  closed.  I 
never  again  saw  nor  heard  of  the  Leadbetter  family  from  that 
day,  but  have  often  wondered  what  finally  became  of  poor  "Sal." 

While  we  were  at  Owl  creek  the  medical  authorities  of  the 
army  put  in  operation  a  method  for  the  prevention  and  cure  of  ma 
laria  that  was  highly  popular  with  some  of  the  boys.  It  consisted 
of  a  gill  of  whisky,  largely  compounded  with  quinine,  and  was 
given  to  each  man  before  breakfast.  I  drank  my  first  "jigger,"  as 
it  was  called,  and  then  quit.  It  was  too  intensely  bitter  for  my 
taste,  and  I  would  secretly  slip  my  allowance  to  John  Barton,  or 
Frank  Burnham,  who  would  have  drunk  it,  I  reckon,  if  it  had  been 
one-half  aqua  fortis.  I  happened  to  be  mixed  up  in  an  incident 
rather  mortifying  to  me,  when  the  first  whisky  rations  were 
brought  to  the  regimental  hospital  in  our  camp  for  use  in  the  above 
manner.  The  quartermaster  came  to  Capt.  Reddish  and  handed 
him  a  requisition  for  two  camp  kettlefuls  of  whisky,  and  told  him 
to  give  it  to  two  non-commissioned  officers  of  his  company  who 
were  strictly  temperate  and  absolutely  reliable,  and  order  them  to 
go  to  the  Division  commissary  headquarters,  get  the  whisky,  bring 
it  to  camp,  and  deliver  it  to  him,  the  quartermaster.  Capt.  Red 
dish  selected  for  this  delicate  duty  Corporal  Tim  Gates  (a  brother 
of  Frank,  above  mentioned)  and  myself.  Tim  was  about  ten  years 
my  senior,  a  tall,  slim  fellow,  and  somewhat  addicted  to  stuttering 


76  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

when  he  became  nervous  or  excited.    Well,  we  each  procured  a  big 
camp  kettle,  went  and  got  the  whisky,  and  started  back  with  it  to 
camp.    On  the  way  we  passed  through  a  space  where  a  large  num 
ber  of  army  wagons  were  parked,  and  when  we  were  in  about  the 
middle  of  the  park  were  then  out  of  sight  of  everybody.    Here  Tim 
stopped,  looked  carefully  around  to  see  if  the  coast  was  clear,  and 
then  said,  "Sti-Sti-Stillwell,  1-1-less  t-t-take  a  swig!"     "All  right," 
I  responded.     Thereupon  Tim  poised  his  camp-kettle  on  a  wagon 
hub,  inclined  the  brim  to  his  lips,  and  took  a  most  copious  draught, 
and  I  followed  suit.    We  then  started  on,  and  it  was  lucky,  for  me 
at  any  rate,  that  we  didn't  have  far  to  go.     I  hadn't  previously 
during  my  army  career  taken  a  swallow  of  whisky  since  one  time 
at  Camp  Carrollton;  I  was  weak  and  feeble,  and  this  big  drink  of 
the  stuff  went  through  my  veins  like  electricity-.    Its  effects  were 
felt  almost  instantly,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  camp,   and   had 
delivered  the  whisky;  I  was  feeing  a  good  deal  like  a  wild  Indian 
on  the  war  path.    I  wanted  to  yell,  to  get  my  musket  and  shoot, 
especially  at  something  that  when  hit  would  jingle — a  looking- 
glass,  an  eight-day  clock,  or  a  boat's  chandelier,  or  something  simi 
lar.    But  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  drunk,  and  liable  to 
forever  disgrace  myself,  and  everybody  at  home,  too.    I  had  just 
sense  enough  left  to  know  that  the  thing  to  do  was  to  get  out  of 
camp  at  once,  so  I  struck  for  the  woods.    In  passing  the  tent  of  my 
squad,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Tim  therein.    He  had  thrown  his  cap 
and  jacket  on  the  ground,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  was  furiously 
challenging  another  fellow  to  then  and  there   settle  an  old-time 
grudge  by  the  "ordeal  of  battle."    I  didn't  tarry,  but  hurried  on  the 
best  I  could,  finally  got  into  a  secluded  patch  of  brush,  and  tumbled 
down.    I  came  to  my  senses  along  late  in  the  evening,  with  a  split 
ting  headache,  and  feeling  awful  generally,  but  reasonably  sober. 
And  such  was  the  conduct,  when  trusted  with  whisky,  of  the 
two  non-commissioned  officers  of  Co.  D,  "men  who  were  strictly 
temperate  and  absolutely  reliable."     But  Tim  had  no  trouble  about 
his  break.    I  suppose  he  gave  some  plausible  explanation,   and   as 
for  me,  I  had  lived  up  to  the  standard,  so  far  as  the  public  knew, 


THE  STORY   OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  77 

and  maintained  a  profound  silence  in  regard  to  the  episode.  Tim 
and  I  in  private  conversation,  or  otherwise,  both  carefully  avoided 
the  subject  until  the  time  came  when  we  could  talk  and  laugh  about 
it  without  any  danger  of  "tarnishing  our  escutcheons." 

In  the  meantime  the  alleged  siege  of  Corinth  was  proceeding 
in  the  leisurely  manner  that  characterized  the  progress  of  a  suit  in 
chancery  under  the  ancient  equity  methods.  From  our  camp  on 
Owl  creek  we  could  hear,  from  time  to  time,  sporadic  outbursts  of 
cannonading,  but  we  became  so  accustomed  to  it  that  the  artillery 
practice  ceased  to  excite  any  special  attention.  The  Confederates 
began  quietly  evacuating  the  place  during  the  last  days  of  May, 
completed  the  operation  on  the  30th  of  the  month,  and  on  the 
evening  of  that  day  our  troops  marched  into  the  town  unopposed. 


78  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


BETHEL.— JACKSON.— JUNE  AND  JULY,  1862. 

Soon  after  our  occupation  of  Corinth  a  change  in  the  position 
of  our  forces  took  place,  and  all  the  command  at  Owl  creek  was 
transferred  to  Bethel,  a  small  station  on  the  Mobile  and  Ohio  rail 
road,  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles  to  the  northwest.  We  left 
Owl  creek  on  the  morning  of  June  6th,  and  arrived  at  Bethel  about 
dark  the  same  evening.  Thanks  to  my  repeated  long  walks  in  the 
woods  outside  of  our  lines,  I  was  in  pretty  fair  health  at  this  time, 
but  still  somewhat  weak  and  shaky.  On  the  morning  we  took  up 
the  line  of  march,  while  waiting  for  the  "fall  in"  call,  I  was  seated 
at  the  foot  of  a  big  tree  in  camp,  with  my  knapsack,  packed,  at  my 
side.  Enoch  Wallace  came  to  me  and  said :  "Stillwell,  are  you  go 
ing  to  try  to  carry  your  knapsack  ?"  I  answered  that  I  reckoned  I 
had  to,  that  I  had  asked  Hen.  King  (our  company  teamster)  to 
let  me  put  it  in  his  wagon,  and  he  wouldn't, — said  he  already  had 
too  big  a  load.  Enoch  said  nothing  more,  but  stood  silently  look 
ing  down  at  me  a  few  seconds,  then  picked  up  my  knapsack  and 
threw  it  into  our  wagon,  which  was  close  by,  saying  to  King,  as  he 
did  so,  "Haul  that  knapsack ;"  -  and  it  was  hauled.  I  shall 
never  forget  this  act  of  kindness  on  the  part  of  Enoch.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  me  to  have  made  the  march  carrying  the 
knapsack.  The  day  was  hot,  and  much  of  the  road  wr.s  over  sandy 
land,  and  through  long  stretches  of  black-jack  barrens,  that  ex 
cluded  every  breath  of  a  breeze.  The  men  suffered  much  on  the 
march,  and  fell  out  by  scores.  When  we  stacked  arms  at  Bethel 
that  evening,  there  were  only  four  men  of  Co.  D  in  line,  just 
enough  to  make  one  stack  of  guns, — but  my  gun  was  in  the  stack. 

There  was  no  earthly  necessity  for  making  this  march  in  one 
day.  We  were  simply  "changing  stations ;"  the  Confederate  army 
of  that  region  was  down  in  Mississippi,  a  hundred  miles  or  so 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  79 

away,  and  there  were  no  armed  foes  in  our  vicinity  excepting  some 
skulking  bands  of  guerrillas.  Prior  to  this  our  regiment  had  made 
no  marches,  except  little  short  movements  during  the  siege  of  Cor 
inth,  none  of  which  exceeded  two  or  three  miles.  And  nearly  all 
the  men  were  weak  and  debilitated  by  reason  of  the  prevailing 
type  of  illness,  and  in  no  condition  whatever  to  be  cracked  through 
twenty  miles  or  more  on  a  hot  day.  We  should  have  marched  only 
about  ten  miles  the  first  day,  with  a  halt  of  about  ten  minutes  every 
hour,  to  let  the  men  rest  a  little,  and  get  their  wind.  Had  that 
course  been  pursued,  we  would  have  reached  our  destination  in 
good  shape,  with  the  ranks  full,  and  the  men  would  have  been 
benefited  by  the  march.  As  it  was,  it  probably  caused  the  death  of 
some,  and  the  permanent  disabling  of  more.  The  trouble  at  that 
time  was  the  total  want  of  experience  on  the  part  of  the  most  of 
our  officers  of  all  grades,  combined  with  an  amazing  lack  of  com 
mon  sense  by  some  of  high  authority.  I  am  not  blaming  any  of 
our  regimental  officers  for  this  foolish  "forced  march," — for  it 
amounted  to  that, — the  responsibility  rested  higher  up. 

Our  stay  at  Bethel  was  brief  and  uneventful.  However,  I 
shall  always  remember  the  place  on  account  of  a  piece  of  news 
that  came  to  me  while  we  were  there,  and  which  for  a  time  nearly 
broke  me  all  up.  It  will  be  necessary  to  go  back  some  years  in  or 
der  to  explain  it.  I  began  attending  the  old  Stone  school  house  at 
Otter  creek  when  I  was  about  eight  years  old.  One  of  my  school 
mates  was  a  remarkably  pretty  little  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  au 
burn  hair,  nearly  my  own  age.  We  kept  about  the  same  place  in 
our  studies,  and  were  generally  in  the  same  classes.  I  always  liked 
her,  end  by  the  time  I  was  about  fifteen  years  old  was  head  over 
heels  in  love.  She  was  far  above  me  in  the  social  scale  of  the 
neighborhood.  Her  folks  lived  in  a  frame  house  on  "the  other  side 
of  the  creek,"  and  were  well-to-do,  for  that  time  and  locality.  My 
people  lived  in  a  log  cabin,  on  a  little  farm  in  the  broken  country 
that  extended  from  the  south  bank  of  Otter  creek  to  the  Missis 
sippi  and  Illinois  rivers.  But  notwithstanding  the  difference  in 
our  respective  social  and  financial  positions,  I  knew  that  she  had  a 


80  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

liking  for  me,  and  our  mutual  relations  became  quite  "tender"  and 
interesting.  Then  the  war  came  along,  I  enlisted  and  went  South. 
We  had  no  correspondence  after  I  left  home;  I  was  just  too  de 
plorably  bashful  to  attempt  it,  and,  on  general  principles,  didn't 
have  sense  enough  to  properly  carry  on  a  proceeding  of  that  na 
ture.  It  may  be  that  here  was  where  I  fell  down.  But  I  thought 
about  her  every  day,  and  had  many  boyish  day  dreams  of  the  fu 
ture,  in  which  she  was  the  prominent  figure.  Soon  after  our  ar 
rival  at  Bethel  I  received  a  letter  from  home.  I  hurriedly  opened 
it,  anxious,  as  usual,  to  hear  from  the  folks,  and  sitting  down  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree,  began  reading  it.  All  went  well  to  nearly  the 
close,  when  I  read  these  fatal  words : 

"Billy  Crane  and  Lucy  Archer  got  married  last  week." 
The  above  names  are  fictitious,  but  the  bride  was  my  girl. 

I  can't  explain  my  feelings, — if  you  ever  have  had  such  an  ex 
perience,  you  will  understand.  I  stole  a  hurried  glance  around  to 
see  if  anybody  was  observing  my  demeanor,  then  thrust  the  letter 
into  my  jacket  pocket,  and  walked  away.  ^  Not  far  from  our  camp 
was  a  stretch  of  swampy  land,  thickly  set  with  big  cypress  trees, 
and  I  bent  my  steps  in  that  direction.  Entering  the  forest,  I  sought 
a  secluded  spot,  sat  down  on  an  old  log,  and  read  and  re-read  that 
heart-breaking  piece  of  intelligence.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
words;  they  were  plain,  laconic,  and  nothing  ambiguous  about 
them.  And,  to  intensify  the  bitterness  of  the  draught,  it  may  be 
set  down  here  that  the  groom  was  a  dudish  young  squirt,  a  clerk 
in  a  country  store,  who  lacked  the  pluck  to  go  for  a  soldier,  but 
had  stayed  at  home  to  count  eggs  and  measure  calico.  In  my  opin 
ion,  he  was  not  worthy  of  the  girl,  and  I  was  amazed  that  she  had 
taken  him  for  a  husband.  I  remember  well  some  of  my  thoughts 
as  I  sat  with  bitterness  in  my  heart,  alone  among  those  gloomy  cy 
presses.  I  wanted  a  great  big  battle  to  come  off  at  once,  with  the 
61st  Illinois  right  in  front,  that  we  might  run  out  of  cartridges, 
and  the  order  would  be  given  to  fix  bayonets  and  charge!  Like 
Major  Simon  Suggs,  in  depicting  the  horrors  of  an  apprehended 
Indian  war,  I  wanted  to  see  blood  flow  in  a  "great  gulgin'  torrent, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  81 

like  the  Tallapoosa  river."  Well,  it  was  simply  a  case  of  pure,  in 
tensely  ardent  boy-love,  and  I  was  hit,  hard, — but  survived.  And 
I  now  heartily  congratulate  myself  on  the  fact  that  this  youthful 
shipwreck  ultimately  resulted  in  my  obtaining  for  a  wife  the  very 
best  woman  (excepting  only  my  mother)  that  I  ever  knew  in  my 
life. 

I  never  again  met  my  youthful  flame,  to  speak  to  her,  and  saw 
her  only  once,  and  then  at  a  distance,  some  years  after  the  close  of 
the  war  when  I  was  back  in  Illinois  on  a  visit  to  my  parents.  Sev 
eral  years  ago  her  husband  died,  and  in  course  of  time  she  married 
again,  this  time  a  man  I  never  knew,  and  the  last  I  heard  of  or 
concerning  her,  she  and  her  second  husband  were  living  some 
where  in  one  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  States. 

For  a  short  time  after  the  evacuation  of  Corinth,  Pittsburg 
Landing  continued  to  be  our  base  of  supplies,  and  commissary 
stores  were  wagoned  from  there  to  the  various  places  where  our 
troops  were  stationed.  And  it  happened,  while  the  regiment  was 
at  Bethel,  that  I  was  one  of  a  party  of  about  a  hundred  men  de 
tailed  to  serve  as  guards  for  a  wagon  train  destined  for  the  Land 
ing,  and,  return  to  Bethel  with  army  rations.  There  was  at  the 
Landing  at  this  time,  serving  as  guards  for  the  government  stores, 
a  regiment  of  infantry.  There  were  only  a  few  of  them  visible, 
and  they  looked  pale  and  emaciated,  and  much  like  "dead  men  on 
their  feet."  I  asked  one  of  them  what  regiment  was  stationed 
there,  and  he  told  me  it  was  the  14th  Wisconsin  Infantry.  This 
was  the  one  I  had  seen  at  Benton  Barracks  and  admired  so  much  on 
account  of  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  men.  I  mentioned  this 
to  the  soldier,  and  expressed  to  him  my  surprise  to  now  see  them 
in  such  bad  shape.  He  went  on  to  tell  me  that  the  men  had  suf- 
freed  fearfully  from  the  change  of  climate,  the  water,  and  their 
altered  conditions  in  general;  that  they  had  nearly  all  been  pros 
trated  by  camp  diarrhea,  and  at  that  time  there  were  not  more 
than  a  hundred  men  in  the  regiment  fit  for  duty,  and  even  those 
were  not  much  better  than  shadows  of  their  former  selves.  And, 
judging  from  the  few  men  that  were  visible,  the  soldier  told  the 


82  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

plain,  unvarnished  truth.  Our  regiment  and  the  14th  Wisconsin 
soon  drifted  apart,  and  I  never  saw  it  again.  But  as  a  matter  of 
history,  I  will  say  that  it  made  an  excellent  and  distinguished  rec 
ord  during  the  war. 

On  June  16  our  brigade  left  Bethel  for  Jackson,  Tennessee,  a 
town  on  the  Mobile  and  Ohio  railroad,  and  about  thirty-five  or  forty 
miles,  by  the  dirt  road,  northwest  of  Bethel.  On  this  march,  like 
the  preceding  one,  I  did  not  carry  my  knapsack.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  the  most  of  the  boys  adopted  the  "blanket-roll"  system. 
Our  knapsacks  were  awkward,  cumbersome  things,  with  a  com 
bination  of  straps  and  buckles  that  chafed  the  shoulders  and  back, 
and  greatly  augmented  heat  and  general  discomfort.  So  we  would 
fold  in  our  blankets  an  extra  shirt,  with  a  few  other  light  articles, 
roll  the  blanket  tight,  double  it  over  and  tie  the  two  ends  together, 
then  throw  the  blanket  over  one  shoulder,  with  the  tied  ends  under 
the  opposite  arm — and  the  arrangement  was  complete.  We  had 
learned  by  this  time  the  necessity  of  reducing  our  personal  bag 
gage  to  the  lightest  possible  limit.  We  had  left  Camp  Carrollton 
with  great  bulging  knapsacks,  stuffed  with  all  sorts  of  plunder, 
much  of  which  was  utterly  useless  to  soldiers  in  the  field.  But  we 
soon  got  rid  of -all  that.  And  my  recollection  is  that  after  the 
Bethel  march  the  great  majority  of  the  men  would,  in  some  way, 
when  on  a  march,  temporarily  lay  aside  their  knapsacks,  and  use 
the  blanket  roll.  The  exceptions  to  that  method,  in  the  main,  were 
the  soldiers  of  foreign  birth,  especially  the  Germans.  They  carried 
theirs  to  the  last  on  all  occasions,  with  everything  in  them  the 
army  regulations  would  permit,  and  usually  something  more. 

Jackson,  our  objective  point  on  this  march,  was  the  county 
seat  of  Madison  county,  and  a  portion  of  our  line  of  march  was 
through  the  south  part  of  the  county.  This  region  had  a  singular 
interest  for  me,  the  nature  of  which  I  will  now  state.  Among  the 
few  books  we  had  at  home  was  an  old  paper-covered  copy,  with 
horrible  wood-cuts,  of  a  production  entitled,  "The  Life  and  Adven 
tures  of  John  A.  Murrell,  the  Great  Western  Land  Pirate,"  by  Vir 
gil  A.  Stewart.  It  was  full  of  accounts  of  cold-blooded,  depraved 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  83 

murders,  and  other  vicious,  unlawful  doings.  My  father  had  known, 
in  his  younger  days,  a  good  deal  of  Murrell  by  reputation,  which 
was  probably  the  moving  cause  for  his  purchase  of  the  book. 
When  a  little  chap  I  frequently  read  it  and  it  possessed  for  me  a 
sort  of  weird,  uncanny  fascination.  Murrell's  home,  and  the  thea 
ter  of  many  of  his  evil  deeds,  during  the  year  1834,  and  for  some 
time  previously,  was  in  this  county  of  Madison,  and  as  we 
trudged  along  the  road  on  this  march  I  scanned  all  the  surround 
ings  with  deep  interest  and  close  attention.  Much  of  the  country 
was  rough  and  broken,  and  densely  wooded,  with  high  ridges  and 
deep  ravines  between  them.  With  the  aid  of  a  lively  imagination, 
many  places  I  noticed  seemed  like  fitting  localities  for  acts  of  vio 
lence  and  crime. 

I  have  in  my  possession  now  (bought  many  years  ago)  a  du 
plicate  of  that  old  copy  of  Murrell  we  had  at  home.  I  sometimes 
look  into  it,  but  it  no  longer  possesses  for  me  the  interest  it  did  in 
my  boyhood  days. 

On  this  march  I  was  a  participant  in  an  incident  which  was 
somewhat  amusing,  and  also  a  little  bit  irritating.  Shortly  before 
noon  of  the  first  day,  Jack  Medford,  of  my  company,  a^id  mv^elf, 
concluded  we  would  "straggle,"  and  try  to  get  a  country  dinner. 
Availing  ourselves  of  the  first  favorable  opportun:ty,  we  sl:pped 
from  the  ranks,  and  struck  out.  We  followed  an  old  country  road 
that  ran  substantially  parallel  to  the  main  road  on  wh:ch  the  col 
umn  was  marching,  and  soon  came  to  a  nice  looking  old  log  house 
standing  in  a  grove  of  big  native  treei.  The  only  peep  e  at  the 
house  were  two  middle-aged  women  and  some  children.  We  a  ked 
the  women  if  we  could  have  some  dinner,  saying  that  we  would  pay 
for  it.  They  gave  an  affirmative  answer,  but  their  tone  was  not 
cordial  and  they  looked  "daggers."  Dinner  was  just  about  pre 
pared,  and  when  all  was  ready,  we  were  invited,  with  evident  coo1- 
ness,  to  take  seats  at  the  table.  We  had  a  splendid  meal,  consist 
ing  of  corn  bread,  new  Irish  potatoes,  boi'ed  bacon  and  greens, 
butter  and  buttermilk.  Compared  with  sow-belly  and  hardtack,  it 
was  a  feast.  Dinner  over,  we  essayed  to  pay  therefor.  Their 


84  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

v  rs* 

charge  was  something  less  than  a  dollar  for  both  of  us,  but  we  had 
not  the  exact  change.  The  smallest  denomination  of  money  either 
of  us  had  was  a  dollar  greenback,  and  the  women  said  that  they 
had  no  money  at  all  to  make  change.  Thereupon  we  proffered  them 
the  entire  dollar.  They  looked  at  it  askance,  and  asked  if  we  had 
any  "Southern"  or  Confederate  money.  We  said  we  had  not,  that 
this  was  the  only  kind  of  money  ^we  had.  They  continued  to  look 
exceedingly  sour,  and  finally  remarked  that  they  were  unwilling 
to  accept  any  kind  of  money  except  "Southern."  We  urged  them  to 
accept  the  bill,  told  them  it  was  United  States  money,  and  that  it 
would  pass  readily  in  any  place  in  the  South  occupied  by  our  sol 
diers;  but  no,  they  were  obdurate,  and  declined  the  greenback  with 
unmistakable  scorn.  Of  course,  we  kept  our  temper ;  it  never  would 
have  done  to  be  saucy  or  rude  after  getting  such  a  good  dinner, 
but,  for  my  part,  I  felt  considerably  vexed.  But  there  was  nothing 
left  to  do  except  thank  them  heartily  for  their  kindness  and  depart. 
From  their  standpoint  their  course  in  the  matter  was  actuated  by 
the  highest  and  most  unselfish  patriotism,  but  naturally  we  couldn't 
look  at  it  in  that  light.  I  wi1!  say  here,  "with  malice  towards  none, 
and  with  chanty  for  all,"  that  in  my  entire  sojourn  in  the  South 
during  the  war,  the  women  were  found  to  be  more  intensely  bitter 
and  malignant  against  the  old  government  of  the  United  States, 
and  the  national  cause  in  general,  than  were  the  men.  Their  atti 
tude  is  probably  another  illustration  of  the  truth  of  Kipling's  say 
ing,  "The  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the  male." 

We  arrived  at  Jackson  on  the  evening  of  June  17,  and  went 
into  camp  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  in  a  beautiful  grove  of  tall 
young  oaks.  The  site  was  neither  too  shady  nor  too  sunny,  and,  all 
things  considered,  I  think  it  was  about  the  nicest  camping  ground 
the  regiment  had  during  its  entire  service.  We  settled  down  here 
to  a  daily  round  of  battalion  drill,  being  the  first  of  that  character, 
as  I  now  remember,  we  had  so  far  had.  A  battalion  drill  is  simply 
one  where  the  various  companies  are  handled  as  a  regimental 
unit,  and  are  put  through  regimental  evolutions.  Battalion  drill 
at  first  was  frequently  very  embarrassing  to  some  commanding  of- 


THE1STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  85 

ficers  of  companies.  The  regimental  commander  would  give  a  com 
mand,  indicating,  in  general  terms,  the  movement  desired,  and  it 
was  then  the  duty  of  a  company  commander  to  see  to  the  details  of 
the  movement  that  his  company  should  make,  and  give  the  proper 
orders.  Well,  sometimes  he  would  be  badly  stumped,  and  ludicrous 
"bobbles"  would  be  the  result.  As  for  the  men  in  the  ranks,  battal 
ion  drill  was  as  simple  as  any  other,  for  we  only  had  to  obey  specific 
commands  which  indicated  exactly  what  we  were  to  do.  To  "form 
square,"  an  antique  disposition  against  cavalry,  was  a  movement 
that  was  especially  "trying"  to  some  company  officers.  But  so  far 
as  forming  square  was  concerned,  all  our  drill  on  that  feature  was 
time  thrown  away.  In  actual  battle  we  never  made  that  disposi 
tion  a  single  time — and  the  same  is  true  of  several  other  labored 
and  intricate  movements  prescribed  in  the  tactics,  and  which  we 
were  industriously  put  through.  But  it  was  good  exercise,  and  "all 
went  in  the  day's  work." 

While  thus  amusing  ourselves  at  battalion  drill  suddenly  came 
marching  orders,  and  which  required  immediate  execution.  Tents 
were  forthwith  struck,  rolled  and  tied,  and  loaded  in  the  wagons, 
with  all  other  camp  and  garrison  equipage.  Our  knapsacks  were 
packed  with  all  our  effects,  since  special  instructions  had  been  given 
on  that  matter.  Curiosity  was  on  the  qui  vive  to  know  where  we 
were  going,  but  apart  from  the  fact  that  we  were  to  be  transported 
on  the  cars,  apparently  nobody  knew  whither  we  were  bound.  Col. 
Fry  was  absent,  sick,  and  Major  Ohr  was  then  in  command  of  the 
regiment.  He  was  a  fine  officer,  and,  withal,  a  very  sensible  man, 
and  I  doubt  if  any  one  in^the  regiment  except  himself  had  reliable 
knowledge  as  to  our  ultimate  destination.  As  soon  as  our  march 
ing  preparations  were  complete,  which  did  not  take  long,  the  bugle 
sounded  "Fall  in !"  and  the  regiment  formed  in  line  on  the  parade 
ground.  In  my  "mind's  eye"  I  can  now  see  Major  Ohr  in  our  front, 
on  his  horse,  his  blanket  strapped  behind  his  saddle,  smoking  his 
little  briar  root  pipe,  and  looking  as  cool  and  unconcerned  as  if  we 
were  only  going  a  few  miles  for  a  change  of  camp.  Our  entire 
brigade  fell  in,  and  so  far  as  we  could  see,  or  learn,  all  of  the 


86  .   THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

division  at  Jackson,  then  under  the  command  of  Gen.  John  A. 
McClernand,  was  doing  likewise.  Well,  we  stood  there  in  line,  at 
ordered  arms,  and  waited.  We  expected,  every  moment,  to  hear  the 
orders  which  would  put  us  in  motion — but  they  were  never  given. 
Finally  we  were  ordered  to  stack  arms  and  break  ranks,  but  were 
cautioned  to  hold  ourselves  in  readiness  to  fall  in  at  the  tap  of  the 
drum.  But  the  day  wore  on  and  nothing  was  done  until  late  in  the 
evening,  when  the  summons  came.  We  rushed  to  the  gun  stacks 
and  took  arms.  The  Major  had  a  brief  talk  with  the  company  of 
ficers,  and  then,  to  our  great  surprise,  the  companies  were  marched 
back  to  their  dismantled  camps,  and  after  being  instructed  to  stay 
close  thereto,  were  dismissed.  This  state  of  affairs  lasted  for  at 
least  two  days,  and  then  collapsed.  We  were  told  that  the  orders 
had  been  countermanded;  we  unloaded  our  tents,  pitched  them 
again  on  the  old  sites,  and  resumed  battalion  drill.  It  was  then 
gossiped  around  among  the  boys  that  we  actually  had  been  under 
marching  orders  for  Virginia  to  reinforce  the  Army  of  the  Poto 
mac!  Personally  I  looked  on  that  as  mere  "camp  talk,"  and  put 
no  confidence  in  it,  and  never  found  out,  until  about  fifteen  years 
later,  that  this  rumor  was  a  fact.  I  learned  it  in  this  wise :  About 
nine  years  after  the  close  of  the  war,  Congress  passed  an  act  pro 
viding  for  the  publication,  in  book  form,  of  all  the  records,  re 
ports,  correspondence,  and  the  like,  of  both  the  Union  and  Confed 
erate  armies.  Under  this  law,  about  one  hundred  and  thirty  large 
volumes  were  published,  containing  the  matter  above  stated. 
When  the  law  was  passed  I  managed  to  arrange  to  procure  a  set 
of  these  Records  and  they  were  sent  to  me  from  Washington  as 
fast  as  printed.  And  from  one  of  these  volumes  I  ascertained  that 
on  June  28,  1862,  E.  M.  Stanton,  the  Secretary  of  War,  had  tele 
graphed  Gen.  Halleck  (who  was  then  in  command  of  the  western 
armies)  as  follows: 

"It  is  absolutely  necessary  for  you  immediately  to  de 
tach  25,000  of  your  force,  and  send  it  by  the  nearest  and 
quickest  route  by  way  of  Baltimore  and  Washington  to 
Richmond.  [This]  is  rendered  imperative  by  a  serious  re- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

verse  suffered  by  Gen.  McClellan  before  Richmond  yester 
day,  the  full  extent  of  which  is  not  known."     (Rebellion 
Records,  Series  1,  Vol.  16,  Part  2,  pp.  69  and  70.) 
In  obedience  to  the  above,   General  Haileck   wired   General  Mc- 
Clernand  on  June  30  as  follows: 

"You  will  collect  as  rapidly  as  possible  all  the  infan 
try  regiments  of  your  division,  and  take  advantage  of 
every  train  to  transport  them  to  Columbus  [Ky.J  and 
thence  to  Washington  City."  (Id.  p.  76.) 

But  that  same  day  (June  30)  a  telegram  was  sent  by  President 
Lincoln  to  Gen.  Haileck,  which  operated  to  revoke  the  foregoing 
order  of  Stanton's — and  so  the  61st  Illinois  never  became  a  part 
of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  and  for  which  I  am  very  thankful. 
That  army  was  composed  of  brave  men,  and  they  fought  long  and 
well,  but,  in  my  opinion,  and  which  I  think  is  sustained  by  history, 
they  never  had  a  competent  commander  until  they  got  U.  S. 
Grant.  So,  up  to  the  coming  of  Grant,  their  record,  in  the  main, 
was  a  series  of  bloody  disasters,  and  their  few  victories,  like  Antie- 
tam  and  Gettysburg,  were  not  properly  and  energetically  followed 
up  as  they  should  have  been,  and  hence  were  largely  barren  of 
adequate  results.  Considering  these  things,  I  have  always  some 
how  "felt  it  in  my  bones"  that  if  Mr.  Lincoln  had  not  sent  the 
brief  telegram  above  mentioned,  I  would  now  be  sleeping  in  some 
(probably)  unmarked  and  unknown  grave  away  back  in  old  Vir 
ginia. 

While  at  Jackson  an  incident  occurred  while  I  was  on  picket 
in  which  Owen  McGrath,  the  big  Irishman  I  have  previously  men 
tioned,  played  an  interesting  part.  As  corporal  I  had  three  men 
under  me,  McGrath  being  one,  and  the  others  were  a  couple  of  big, 
burly  young  fellows  belonging  to  Co.  A.  Our  post  was  on  the  rail 
road  a  mile  or  two  from  the  outskirts  of  Jackson,  and  where  the 
picket  line  for  some  distance  ran  practically  parallel  with  the  rail 
road.  The  spot  at  this  post  where  the  picket  stood  when  on  guard 
was  at  the  top  of  a  bank  on  the  summit  of  a  slight  elevation,  just 
at  the  edge  of  a  deep  and  narrow  railroad  cut.  A  bunch  of  guer- 


88  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

rillas  had  recently  been  operating  in  that  locality,  and  making 
mischief  on  a  small  scale,  and  our  orders  were  to  be  vigilant  and 
on  the  alert,  especially  at  night.  McGrath  was  on  duty  from  6  to 
8  in  the  evening,  and  at  the  latter  hour  I  notified  one  of  the  Co.  A 
men  that  his  turn  had  come.  The  weather  was  bad,  a  high  wind 
was  blowing,  accompanied  by  a  drizzling  rain,  and  all  signs  por 
tended  a  stormy  night.  The  Co.  A  fellow  buckled  on  his  cartridge 
box,  picked  up  his  musket,  and  gave  a  scowling  glance  at  the  sur 
roundings.  Then,  with  much  profanity,  he  declared  that  he  wasn't 
going  to  stand  up  on  that  bank,  he  was  going  down  into  the  cut, 
where  he  could  have  some  shelter  from  the  wind  and  rain.  I  told 
him  that  would  never  do,  that  there  he  could  see  nothing  in  our 
front,  and  might  as  well  not  be  on  guard  at  all.  But  he  loudly  an 
nounced  his  intention  to  stick  to  his  purpose.  The  other  Co.  A 
man  chimed  in,  and  with  many  expletives  declared  that  Bill  was 
right,  that  he  intended  to  stand  in  the  cut  too  when  his  time  came, 
that  he  didn't  believe  there  was  a  Secesh  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  us,  anyway,  and  so  on.  I  was  sorely  troubled,  and  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  They  were  big,  hulking  fellows,  and  either  could  have 
just  smashed  me,  with  one  hand  tied  behind  him.  McGrath  had 
been  intently  listening  to  the  conversation,  and  saying  nothing, 
but,  as  matters  were  evidently  nearing  a  crisis,  he  now  took  a 
hand.  Walking  up  to  the  man  who  was  to  relieve  him,  he  laid  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  hand  on  the  fellow's  breast,  and  looking  him 
square  in  the  eyes,  spoke  thus: 

"It's  the  ar-r-dhers  of  the  car-r-parral  that  the  sintry  stand 
here,"  (indicating,)  "and  the  car-r-parral's  ar-r-dhers  will  be 
obeyed.  D'ye  moind  that,  now  ?" 

I  had  stepped  to  the  side  of  McGrath  while  he  was  talking,  to 
give  him  my  moral  support,  at  least,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  mu 
tineer.  He  looked  at  us  in  silence  a  second  or  two,  and  then,  with 
some  muttering  about  the  corporal  being  awful  particular,  finally 
said  he  could  stand  it  if  the  rest  could,  assumed  his  post  at  the  top 
of  the  bank,  and  the  matter  was  ended.  The  storm  blew  over  be 
fore  midnight  and  the  weather  cleared  up.  In  the  morning  we  had 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  89 

a  satisfying  soldier  breakfast,  and  when  relieved  at  9  o'clock 
marched  back  to  camp  with  the  others  of  the  old  guard,  all  in  good 
humor,  and  with  "peace  and  harmony  prevailing."  But  I  always 
felt  profoundly  grateful  to  grand  old  McGrath  for  his  staunch  sup 
port  on  the  foregoing  occasion ;  without  it,  I  don't  know  what  could 
have  been  done. 


90  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BOLIVAR.— JULY,  AUGUST,  AND  SEPTEMBER,  1862. 

On  July  17  our  brigade,  then  under  the  command  of  Gen.  L.  F. 
Ross,  left  Jackson  for  Bolivar,  Tennessee,  a  town  about  twenty- 
eight  miles  southwest  of  Jackson,  on  what  was  then  called  the 
Mississippi  Central  Railroad.  (Here  I  will  observe  that  the  sketch 
of  the  regiment  before  mentioned  in  the  Illinois  Adjutant  General's 
Reports  is  wrong  as  to  the  date  of  our  departure  from  Jackson.  It 
is  inferable  from  the  statement  in  the  Reports  that  the  time  was 
June  17,  which  really  was  the  date  of  our  arrival  there  from  Beth 
el.)  We  started  from  Jackson  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  but  marched  only  about  eight  miles  when  we  were  brought  to 
an  abrupt  halt,  caused  by  the  breaking  down,  under  the  weight  of 
a  cannon  and  its  carriage,  of  an  ancient  Tennessee  bridge  over 
a  little  stream.  The  nature  of  the  crossing  was  such  that  the 
bridge  simply  had  to  be  rebuilt,  and  made  strong  enough  to  sus 
tain  the  artillery  and  army  wagons,  and  it  took  the  balance  of  the 
day  to  do  it.  We  therefore  bivouacked  at  the  point  where  we  stop 
ped  until  the  next  morning.  Soon  after  the  halt  a  hard  rain  began 
falling,  and  lasted  all  afternoon.  We  had  no  shelter,  and  just  had 
to  take  it,  and  "let  it  rain."  But  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  sum 
mer,  the  weather  was  hot,  and  the  boys  stood  around,  some  crow 
ing  like  chickens,  and  others  quacking  like  ducks,  and  really  seemed 
to  rather  enjoy  the  situation.  About  the  only  drawback  resulting 
from  our  being  caught  out  in  the  summer  rains  was  the  fact  that 
the  water  would  rust  our  muskets.  In  our  time  we  were  required 
to  keep  all  their  metal  parts  (except  the  butt-plate)  as  bright  and 
shining  as  new  silver  dollars.  I  have  put  in  many  an  hour  working 
on  my  gun  with  an  old  rag  and  powdered  dirt,  and  a  corncob,  or 
pine  stick,  polishing  the  barrel,  the  bands,  lock-plate,  and  trigger- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  91 

guard,  until  they  were  fit  to  pass  inspection.  The  inside  of  the 
barrel  we  would  keep  clean  by  the  use  of  a  greased  wiper  and 
plenty  of  hot  water.  In  doing  this,  we  would  ordinarily,  with  our 
screw-drivers,  take  the  gun  to  pieces,  and  remove  from  the  stock 
all  metallic  parts.  I  never  had  any  head  for  machinery,  of  any 
kind,  but,  from  sheer  necessity,  did  acquire  enough  of  the  faculty 
to  take  apart,  and  put  together,  an  army  musket, — and  that  is 
about  the  full  extent  of  my  ability  in  that  line.  We  soon  learned 
to  take  care  of  our  pieces  in  a  rain  by  thoroughly  greasing  them 
with  a  piece  of  bacon,  which  would  largely  prevent  rust  from  strik 
ing  in. 

We  resumed  our  march  to  Bolivar  early  in  the  morning  of  the 
18th.  Our  route  was  practically  parallel  with  the  railroad,  cross 
ing  it  occasionally.  At  one  of  these  crossings,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  and  when  only  five  or  six  miles  from  Bolivar,  I  "straggled" 
again,  and  took  to  the  railroad.  I  soon  fell  in  with  three  Co.  C 
boys,  who  had  done  likewise.  We  concluded  we  would  endeavor 
to  get  a  country  supper,  and  with  that  in  view,  an  hour  or  so  be 
fore  sundown  went  to  a  nice  looking  farm-house  not  far  from  the 
railroad,  and  made  our  wants  known  to  the  occupants.  We  had  se 
lected  for  our  spokesman  the  oldest  one  of  our  bunch,  a  soldier  per 
haps  twenty-five  years  old,  named  Aleck  Cope.  He  was  something 
over  six  feet  tall,  and  about  as  gaunt  as  a  sand-hill  crane.  He  was 
bare-footed,  and  his  feet,  in  color  and  general  appearance,  looked 
a  good  deal  like  the  flappers  of  an  alligator.  His  entire  garb,  on 
this  occasion,  consisted  of  an  old  wool  hat  and  his  government 
shirt  and  drawers.  The  latter  garment,  like  the  "cuttie  sark"  of 
witch  Nannie  in  "Tarn  O'Shanter,"  "in  longitude  was  sorely  scanty," 
coming  only  a  little  below  his  knees,  and  both  habiliments  would 
have  been  much  improved  by  a  thorough  washing.  But  in  the  duty 
assigned  him  he  acquitted  himself  well  with  the  people  of  the 
house,  and  they  very  cheerfully  said  they  would  prepare  us  a  sup 
per.  They  seemingly  were  well-to-do,  as  several  colored  men  and 
women  were  about  the  premises,  who,  of  course,  were  slaves.  Soon 
were  audible  the  death  squawks  of  chickens  in  the  barn-yard,  which 


92  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

we  heard  with  much  satisfaction.  In  due  time  supper  was  an 
nounced,  and  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  table.  And  what  a  ban 
quet  we  had !  Fried  chicken,  nice  hot  biscuits,  butter,  butter-milk, 
honey,  (think  of  that!)  preserved  peaches,  fresh  cucumber  pickles, 
— and  so  forth.  And  a  colored  house-girl  moved  back  and  forth  be 
hind  us,  keeping  off  the  flies  with  a  big  peacock-feather  brush. 
Aleck  Cope  sat  opposite  me,  and  when  the  girl  was  performing  that 
office  for  him,  the  situation  looked  so  intensely  ludicrous  that  I 
wanted  to  scream.  Supper  over,  we  paid  the  bill,  which  was  quite 
reasonable,  and  went  on  our  way  rejoicing,  and  reached  Bolivar 
soon  after  dark,  about  the  same  time  the  regiment  did.  But  it  will 
now  be  set  down  that  this  was  the  last  occasion  when  I  "straggled" 
on  a  march.  A  day  or  so  after  arriving  at  Bolivar  the  word  came 
to  me  in  some  way,  I  think  from  Enoch  Wallace,  that  our  first 
lieutenant,  Dan  Keeley,  had  spoken  disapprovingly  of  my  conduct 
in  that  regard.  He  was  a  young  man,  about  twenty-five  years  old, 
of  education  and  refinement,  and  all  things  considered,  the  best 
company  officer  we  had.  I  was  much  attached  to  him,  and  I  know 
that  he  liked  me.  Well,  I  learned  that  he  had  said,  in  substance, 
that  a  non-commissioned  officer  should  set  a  good  example  to  the 
men  in  all  things,  and  that  he  hadn't  expected  of  Stillwell  that  he 
would  desert  the  ranks  on  a  march.  That  settled  the  matter.  My 
conduct  had  simply  been  thoughtless,  without  any  shirking  inten 
tions,  but  I  then  realized  that  it  was  wrong,  and,  as  already  stated, 
straggled  no  more. 

We  went  into  camp  at  Bolivar  a  little  south  of  the  town,  in  a 
grove  of  scattered  big  oak  trees.  A  few  days  after  our  arrival  a 
good-sized  body  of  Confederate  cavalry,  under  the  command  of  Gen. 
Frank  C.  Armstrong,  moved  up  from  the  south,  and  began  operat 
ing  near  Bolivar  and  vicinity.  Our  force  there  was  comparative 
ly  small,  and,  according  to  history,  we  were,  for  a  time,  in  consid 
erable  danger  of  being  "gobbled  up,"  but  of  that  we  common  sol 
diers  knew  nothing.  Large  details  were  at  once  put  to  work 
throwing  up  breast-works,  while  the  men  not  on  that  duty  were 
kept  in  line  of  battle,  or  with  their  guns  in  stack  on  the  line,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  93 

strictly  cautioned  to  remain  close  at  hand,  and  ready  to  fall  in  at 
the  tap  of  a  drum.  This  state  of  things  continued  for  some  days, 
then  the  trouble  would  seemingly  blow  over,  and  later  would  break 
out  again.  While  we  were  thus  on  the  ragged  edge,  and  expecting 
a  battle  almost  any  hour,  a  little  incident  occurred  which  somehow 
made  on  me  a  deep  and  peculiar  impression.  To  explain  it  fully,  I 
must  go  back  to  our  first  days  at  Pittsburg  Landing.  A  day  or  two 
after  our  arrival  there,  Lt.  Keeley  said  to  me  that  the  regimental 
color  guard,  to  consist  of  a  sergeant  and  eight  corporals,  was  be 
ing  formed,  that  Co.  D  had  been  called  on  for  a  corporal  for  that 
duty,  and  that  I  should  report  to  Maj.  Ohr  for  instructions.  Nat 
urally  I  felt  quite  proud  over  this,  and  forthwith  reported  to  the 
Major,  at  his  tent,  and  stated  my  business.  He  looked  at  me  in 
silence,  and  closely,  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  remarked,  in  sub 
stance,  that  I  could  go  to  my  quarters,  and  if  needed,  would  be  no 
tified  later.  This  puzzled  me  somewhat,  but  I  supposed  it  would 
come  out  all  right  in  due  time.  There  was  a  corporal  in  our  com 
pany  to  whom  I  will  give  a  fictitious  name,  and  call  him  Sam  Cobb. 
He  was  a  big,  fine  looking  fellow,  and  somewhere  between  twenty- 
five  and  thirty  years  old.  And  an  hour  or  two  after  my  dismissal 
by  Maj.  Ohr,  I  heard  Sam  loudly  proclaiming,  with  many  fierce 
oaths,  to  a  little  group  of  Co.  D.  boys,  that  he  "had  been  promoted." 

That  he  was  a  "color  corporal,  by !"    This  announcement  was 

accompanied  by  sundry  vociferous  statements  in  regard  to  Maj. 
Ohr  knowing  exactly  the  kind  of  men  to  get  to  guard  the  colors  of 
the  regiment  in  time  of  battle,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  I  heard  all 
this  with  mortification  and  bitterness  of  spirit.  The  reason  now 
dawned  on  me  why  I  had  been  rejected.  I  was  only  a  boy,  rather 
small  for  my  age,  and  at  this  time  feeble  in  appearance.  Maj. 
Ohr,  quite  properly,  wanted  strong,  stalwart,  fine  looking  men  for 
the  color  guard.  A  little  reflection  convinced  me  that  he  was  right, 
and  could  not  be  blamed  for  his  action.  But  he  found  out  later,  (in 
this  particular  case,  at  least)  that  something  more  than  a  fine  ap 
pearance  was  required  to  make  a  soldier.  Only  two  or  three  days 
after  Sam's  "promotion,"  came  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  and  at  the 


94  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

very  first  volley  the  regiment  received,  he  threw  down  his  gun,  and 
ran  like  a  whipped  cur.  The  straps  and  buckles  of  his  cartridge 
box  were  new  and  stiff,  so  he  didn't  take  the  time  to  release  them  in 
the  ordinary  way,  but  whipped  out  his  jack-knife  and  cut  them  as 
he  ran.  I  did  not  see  this  personally,  but  was  told  it  by  boys  who 
did.  We  saw  no  more  of  Sam  until  after  the  battle,  when  he 
sneaked  into  camp,  with  a  fantastic  story  of  getting  separated 
from  the  regiment  in  a  fall-back  movement,  that  he  then  joined 
another,  fought  both  days,  and  performed  prodigies  of  valor.  But 
there  were  too  many  that  saw  the  manner  of  his  alleged  "separa 
tion"  for  his  story  ever  to  be  believed. 

I  will  now  return  to  the  Bolivar  incident.  While  the  Confed 
erates  were  operating  in  the  vicinity  of  this  place,  as  above  men 
tioned,  the  ''fall  in"  -call  was  sounded  one  evening  after  dark,  and 
the  regiment  promptly  formed  in  line  on  the  parade  ground.  We 
remained  there  an  hour  or  so,  when  finally  the  command  was  given 
to  stack  arms,  and  the  men  were  dismissed  with  orders  to  hold 
themselves  in  readiness  to  form  in  line,  on  the  parade  grounds,  at 
a  moment's  warning.  As  I  was  walking  back  to  our  company 
quarters,  Sam  Cobb  stepped  up  to  me  and  took  me  to  one  side,  un 
der  the  shadow  of  a  tall  oak  tree.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night, 
with  some  big,  fleecy  clouds  in  the  sky.  "Stillwell,"  asked  Sam, 
"do  you  think  we  are  going  to  have  a  fight?"  "I  don't  know,  Sam," 
I  answered,  "but  it  looks  very  much  like  it.  I  reckon  Gen.  Ross 
is  not  going  out  to  hunt  a  fight;  he  prefers  to  stay  here,  protect 
the  government  stores,  and  fight  on  the  defensive.  If  our  cavalry 
can  stand  the  Rebs  off,  then  maybe  they  will  let  us  alone, — but  if 
our  cavalry  are  driven  in,  then  look  out."  Sam  held  his  head  down, 
and  said  nothing.  As  above  stated,  he  was  a  grown  man,  and  I 
was  only  a  boy,  but  the  thing  that  was  troubling  him  was  apparent 
from  his  demeanor,  and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  laid  a  hand  kindly 
on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "And  Sam,  if  we  should  have  a  fight, 
now  try,  old  fellow,  and  do  better  than  you  did  before."  He  looked 
up  quickly — at  that  instant  the  moon  passed  from  behind  a  big 
cloud  and  shone  through  a  rift  in  the  branches  of  the  tree,  full  in 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  95 

his  face,  which  was  as  pale  as  death,  and  he  said,  in  a  broken 
voice:  "Stillwell,  I'll  run;  I  just  know  I'll  run, — by  God,  I  can't 
help  it !"  I  deeply  pitied  the  poor  fellow,  and  talked  to  him  a  few 
minutes,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible,  trying  to  reason  him  out 
of  that  sort  of  a  feeling.  But  his  case  was  hopeless.  He  was  a 
genial,  kind-hearted  man,  but  simply  a  constitutional  coward,  and 
he  doubtless  told  the  truth  when  he  said  he  "couldn't  help  it."  In 
the  very  next  fight  we  were  in  he  verified  his  prediction.  I  may 
say  something  about  that  further  on. 

Since  leaving  Camp  Carrollton,  Co.  D  had  lost  two  sergeants, 
one  by  death  from  sickness,  the  other  by  discharge  for  disability, 
so  while  we  were  at  Bolivar  these  vacancies  were  filled  by  appoint 
ments  made  by  Maj.  Ohr,  who  was  then  commanding  the  regiment. 
In  accordance  with  the  custom  in  such  matters,  the  appointments 
were  announced  in  orders,  which  were  read  on  dress  parade.  As  I 
now  write,  it  is  a  little  over  fifty-four  years  since  this  event  took 
place,  but  even  now  my  heart  beats  faster  as  the  fact  is  recalled 
that  as  the  adjutant  read  the  list,  there  came  the  name  "Corporal 
Leander  Stillwell,  Co.  D,  to  be  4th  Sergeant." 

In  the  early  part  of  August,  1862,  while  our  regiment  was  at 
Bolivar,  I  cast  my  first  vote,  which  was  an  illegal  one,  as  then  I  was 
not  quite  nineteen  years  old.  The  circumstances  connected  with 
my  voting  are  not  lengthy,  so  the  story  will  be  told.  In  the  fall  of 
1861  the  voters  of  the  state  of  Illinois  elected  delegates  to  a  Con 
stitutional  Convention,  to  frame  and  submit  to  the  people  a  new 
Constitution.  A  majority  of  the  delegates  so  elected  were  Demo 
crats,  so  they  prepared  a  Constitution  in  accordance  with  their 
political  views.  It  therefore  became  a  party  measure,  the  Demo 
crats  supporting  and  the  Republicans  opposing  it.  By  virtue  of 
some  legal  enactment  all  Illinois  soldiers  in  the  field,  who  were  law 
ful  voters,  were  authorized  to  vote  on  the  question  of  the  adoption 
of  the  proposed  constitution,  and  so,  on  the  day  above  indicated 
the  election  for  this  purpose  was  held  in  our  regiment.  An  elec 
tion  board  was  duly  appointed,  consisting  of  commissioned  officers 
of  the  regiment ;  they  fixed  up  under  a  big  tree  some  hardtack  box- 


96  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

es  to  serve  for  a  table,  and  the  proceedings  began.  I  had  no  inten 
tion  of  voting,  as  I  knew  I  had  not  the  legal  right,  but  Enoch  Wal 
lace  came  to  me  and  suggested  that  I  go  up  and  vote.  When  I  said 
I  was  not  old  enough,  he  simply  laughed,  and  took  me  by  the  arm 
and  marched  me  to  the  voting  place.  The  manner  of  voting  was  by 
word  of  mouth,  the  soldier  gave  his  name,  and  stated  that  he  was 
"For"  or  "Against"  the  constitution,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  his 
vote  was  recorded.  I  voted  "Against,"  and  started  away,  no  ques 
tions  being  asked  me  as  to  my  age.  But  before  getting  out  of 
hearing  I  heard  one  of  the  board  say,  somewhat  sotto  voce,  "That's 
a  mighty  young  looking  voter."  Capt.  Ihrie,  of  Co.  C,  also  on  the 
board,  responded  carelessly  in  the  same  tone,  "Oh  well,  it's  all 
right;  he's  a  dam  good  soldier."  That  remark  puffed  me  away  up, 
and  almost  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  grown  maybe  three  feet,  or 
more,  in  as  many  seconds,  and  needed  only  a  fierce  mustache  to  be  a 
match  for  one  of  Napoleon's  Old  Guard.  And  my  vote  was  not  the 
same  as  Ihrie's,  either,  as  he  was  a  Democrat,  and  supporting  the 
new  constitution.  When  the  regiment  was  recruited  it  was  Demo 
cratic  by  a  large  majority,  but  under  the  enlightening  experiences 
of  the  war  it  hac  become  Republican,  and  out  of  a  total  vote  of 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty,  it  gave  a  majority  against  the  new 
constitution  of  twenty-five.  The  final  result  was  that  the  pro 
posed  constitution  was  beaten  by  the  "home  vote"  alone,  which 
gave  something  over  16,000  majority  against  it.  Consequently  the 
soldier  vote  (although  heavily  against  the  measure)  cut  no  figure, 
as  it  was  not  needed,  and  my  illegal  exercise  of  the  right  of  suf 
frage  did  neither  good  nor  harm ; — and  the  incident  has  long  since 
been  barred  by  the  statute  of  limitations. 

During  the  latter  part  of  July,  and  throughout  August  and 
September,  things  were  lively  and  exciting  at  Bolivar,  and  in  that 
region  generally.  There  was  a  sort  of  feeling  of  trouble  in  the  air 
most  of  the  time.  Gen.  Grant  was  in  command  in  this  military 
district,  and  he  has  stated  in  his  Memoirs  that  the  "most  anxious" 
period  of  the  war,  to  him,  was,  practically,  during  the  time  above 
stated.  But  we  common  soldiers  were  not  troubled  with  any  such 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  97 

feeling.  We  were  devoid  of  all  responsibility,  except  simply  to 
look  out  for  and  take  care  of  ourselves,  and  do  our  duty  to  the  best 
of  our  ability.  And,  speaking  for  myself,  I  will  say  that  this  con 
dition  was  one  that  was  very  "full  of  comfort."  We  had  no  plan 
ning  nor  thinking  to  do,  and  the  world  could  just  wag  as  it  willed. 


98  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


BOLIVAR.— THE  MOVEMENT  TO  THE  VICINITY  OF  IUKA, 
MISSISSIPPI.— SEPTEMBER-DECEMBER,  1862. 

On  September  16  the  regiment  (with  the  rest  of  our  brigade) 
left  Bolivar,  on  the  cars,  went  to  Jackson,  and  thence  to  Corinth, 
Mississippi,  where  we  arrived  about  sundown.  From  here,  still 
on  the  cars,  we  started  east  on  the  Memphis  and  Charleston  rail 
road.  The  train  proceeded  very  slowly,  and  after  getting  about 
seven  or  eight  miles  from  Corinth,  it  stopped,  and  we  passed  the 
rest  of  the  night  on  the  cars.  Early  next  morning  the  train  start 
ed,  and  we  soon  arrived  at  the  little  town  of  Burnsville,  about  fif 
teen  miles  southeast  of  Corinth,  where  we  left  the  cars,  and  went 
into  bivouac  near  the  eastern  outskirts  of  the  tofwn. 

On  the  morning  of  the  19th,  before  daylight,  we  marched 
about  two  miles  east  of  Burnsville,  and  formed  in  line  of  battle, 
facing  the  south,  in  thick  woods,  consisting  mainly  of  tall  pines. 
It  was  talked  among  us  that  the  Confederate  pickets  were  only  a 
short  distance  from  our  front,  and  it  certainly  looked  like  a  battle 
was  impending.  By  this  time  the  military  situation  was  pretty 
well  understood  by  all  of  us.  A  Confederate  force  of  about  eight 
thousand  men  under  Gen.  Sterling  Price  was  at  the  town  of  luka, 
about  two  miles  south  of  us,  and  Gen.  Grant  and  Gen.  Rosecrans 
had  formulated  a  plan  for  attacking  this  force  on  two  sides  at  once. 
Gen.  Rosecrans  was  to  attack  from  the  south,  while  our  column, 
under  the  immediate  command  of  Gen.  E.  0.  C.  Ord,  was  to  close  in 
from  the  north.  Gen.  Grant  was  on  the  field,  and  was  with  the 
troops  on  the  north.  The  plan  was  all  right,  and  doubtless  would 
have  succeeded,  if  the  wind,  on  September  19,  1862,  in  that  local 
ity  had  been  blowing  from  the  south  instead  of  the  north.  It  is 
on  such  seemingly  little  things  that  the  fate  of  battles,  and  some 
times  that  of  nations,  depends.  Gen.  Rosecrans  on  the  afternoon 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  99 

of  the  19th  encountered  the  enemy  south  of  luka,  had  a  severe 
battle,  and  was  quite  roughly  handled.  Only  a  few  miles  to  the 
north  was  all  of  Ord's  command,  in  line  of  battle,  and  expecting 
to  go  in  every  minute,  but  the  order  never  came.  So  all  day  we 
just  stood  around  in  those  pine  woods,  wondering  what  in  the 
world  was  the  matter.  As  already  stated,  the  woods  were  dense, 
and  the  wind  blowing  from  the  north  carried  from  us  all  sounds 
of  the  battle.  I  personally  know  that  this  was  the  case.  There 
were  a  few  cannon  shots  next  morning,  fired  by  a  battery  in  Gen. 
Rosecrans'  column,  and  those  we  distinctly  heard  from  our  posi 
tion,  and  thought  at  the  time  they  indicated  a  battle,  but  they 
were  fired  mainly  as  ''feelers,"  and  to  ascertain  if  the  enemy  were 
present  in  force.  But,  as  stated,  all  day  on  the  19th  we  heard  not 
a  sound  to  indicate  that  a  desperate  battle  was  in  progress  only  a 
few  miles  from  our  front. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  19th  I  witnessed  an  incident  that 
inspired  in  me  my  first  deep-seated  hatred  of  whisky,  and  which 
has  abided  with  me  ever  since.  We  had  formed  in  line  of  battle, 
but  the  command  had  been  given,  "In  place,  rest!"  (which  we  were 
allowed  to  give  a  liberal  construction),  and  we  were  scattered 
around,  standing  or  sitting  down,  near  the  line.  About  this 
time  two  young  assistant  surgeons  came  from  the  rear,  riding  up 
the  road  on  which  the  left  of  the  regiment  rested.  They  belonged 
to  some  infantry  regiment  of  the  division,  but  personally  I  didn't 
know  them.  They  were  both  fool  drunk.  On  reaching  our  line  of 
battle  they  stopped,  but  kept  in  their  saddles,  pulling  their  horses 
about,  playing  "smarty,"  and  grinning  and  chattering  like  a  brace 
of  young  monkeys.  I  looked  at  these  drunk  young  fools,  and 
thought  that  maybe,  in  less  than  an  hour,  one  of  them  might  be 
standing  over  me,  probing  a  bullet  wound  in  one  of  my  legs,  and 
tihen  and  there  promptly  deciding  the  question  whether  the  leg 
should  be  sawed  off,  or  whether  it  could  be  saved.  And  what 
kind  of  intelligent  judgment  on  this  matter,  on  which  my  life  or 
death  might  depend,  could  this  whisky-crazed  young  gosling  be 
capable  of  exercising?  I  felt  so  indignant  at  the  condition  and 


100  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

conduct  of  these  men,  right  on  the  eve  of  what  we  supposed  might 
be  a  severe  battle  and  in  which  their  care  for  the  wounded  would 
be  required,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  me  it  would  be  doing  the 
government  good  service  to  shoot  both  the  galoots  right  on  the 
spot.  And  there  were  other  boys  who  felt  the  same  way,  who  be 
gan  making  ominous  remarks.  The  drunken  young  wretches 
seemed  to  have  sense  enough  to  catch  the  drift  of  something  that 
was  said,  they  put  spurs  to  their  horses  and  galloped  off  to  the 
rear,  and  we  saw  them  no  more. 

On  the  morning  of  the  20th  some  regiments  of  our  division 
moved  forward  and  occupied  the  town  of  luka,  but  Gen.  Price  had 
in  the  meantime  skipped  out,  so  there  was  no  fighting.  Our  regi 
ment,  with  some  others,  remained  in  the  original  position,  so  that 
I  never  got  to  see  the  old  town  of  luka  until  several  years  after  the 
war.  Sometime  during  the  afternoon  of  the  20th  I  went  to  Capt. 
Reddish  and  said  to  him  that  I  had  become  so  tired  of  just  standing 
around,  and  asked  him  if  I  could  take  a  short  stroll  in  the  woods. 
The  old  man  gave  his  consent  (as  I  felt  satisfied  he  would)  but 
cautioned  me  not  to  go  too  far  away.  The. main  thing  in  view, 
when  I  made  the  request,  was  the  hope  of  finding  some  wild  mus 
cadine  grapes.  They  were  plentiful  in  this  section  of  the  country, 
and  were  now  ripe,  and  I  wanted  a  bait.  I  think  a  wild  muscadine 
grape  is  just  the  finest  fruit  of  that  kind  in  existence.  When  ripe 
it  has  a  strong  and  most  agreeable  fragrance,  and  when  one  is  to 
the  leeward  of  a  vine  loaded  with  grapes,  and  a  gentle  wind  is 
blowing  from  the  south,  he  is  first  made  aware  of  their  proximity 
by  their  grateful  odor.  I  soon  found  some  on  this  occasion,  and 
they  were  simply  delicious.  Having  fully  satisfied  my  craving,  I 
proceeded  to  make  my  way  back  to  the  regiment,  when  hearing  the 
trampling  sound  of  cavalry,  I  hurried  through  the  woods  to  the 
side  of  the  road,  reaching  there  just  as  the  head  of  the  column  ap 
peared.  It  was  only  a  small  body,  not  more  than  a  hundred  or 
so,  and  there,  riding  at  its  head,  was  Grant!  I  had  not  seen  him 
since  the  battle  of  Shiloh  and  I  looked  at  him  with  intense  interest. 
He  had  on  an  old  "sugar-loaf"  hat,  with  limp,  drooping  bii^i,  and 


THE_  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  101 

his  outer  coat  was  the  ordinary  uniform  coat,  with  a  long  cape, 
of  a  private  in  the  cavalry.  His  foot-gear  was  cavalry  boots, 
splashed  with  mud,  and  the  ends  of  his  trousers'  legs  were  tucked 
inside  the  boots.  No  shoulder-straps  were  visible,  and  the  only 
eyidence  of  rank  about  him  that  was  perceptible  consisted  of  a 
frayed  and  tarnished  gold  cord  on  his  hat.  He  was  looking  down 
ward  as  he  rode  by,  and  seemed  immersed  in  thought.  As  the 
column  passed  along,  I  asked  a  soldier  near  the  rear  what  troops 
they  were,  and  he  answered,  "Co.  A,  Fourth  Illinois  Cavalry — 
Gen.  Grant's  escort."  This  was  the  last  time  that  I  saw  Grant 
during  the  war. 

On  the  evening  of  the  20th  the  regiment  was  drawn  back  into 
Burnsville,  and  that  night  Co.  D  bivouacked  in  the  "Harrison 
Hotel,"  which  formerly  had  evidently  been  the  principal  hotel  in 
the  town.  It  was  a  rambling,  roomy,  old  frame  building,  two 
stories  and  a  half  high,  now  vacant,  stripped  of  all  furniture,  and 
with  a  thick  layer  of  dust  and  dirt  on  the  floors.  We  occupied  a 
room  on  the  second  floor,  that  evidently  had  been  the  parlor.  Be 
ing  quartered  in  a  hotel  was  a  novel  experience,  and  the  boys  got 
lots  of  fun  out  of  it.  One  would  call  out,  "Bill,  ring  the  clerk  to 
send  up  a  pitcher  of  ice  water,  and  to  be  quick  about  it;"  while 
another  would  say,  "And  while  you're  at  it,  tell  him  to  note  a 
special  order  from  me  for  quail  on  toast  for  breakfast ;"  and  so  on. 
But  these  pleasantries  soon  subsided,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
we  were  wrapped  in  slumber.  It  was  a  little  after  midnight,  and 
I  was  sound  asleep,  when  I  heard  someone  calling,  "Sergeant  Still- 
well!  Where  is  Sergeant  Stillwell?"  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and 
answered,  "Here !  What's  wanted  ?"  The  speaker  came  to  me,  and 
theji  I  saw  that  it  was  Lt.  Goodspeed,  who  was  acting  as  adjutant 
of  the  regiment.  He  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  I  was  to  take 
charge  of  a  detail  of  three  corporals  and  twelve  men  and  go  to  a 
point  about  a  mile  and  a  half  east  of  Burnsville,  to  guard  a  party 
of  section  men  while  clearing  and  repairing  the  railroad  from  a 
recent  wreck.  He  gave  me  full  instructions,  and  then  said,  "Still- 
well,  a  lieutenant  should  go  in  charge  of  this  detail,  but  all  that  I 


102  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

could  find  made  pretty  good  excuses  and  I  think  you'll  do.  It  is 
a  position  of  honor  and  responsibility,  as  there  are  some  prowling 
bands  of  guerrillas  in  this  vicinity,  so  be  careful  and  vigilant."  I 
was  then  acting  as  first  sergeant,  and  really  was  exempt  from  this 
duty,  but  of  course  the  idea  of  making  that  claim  was  not  enter 
tained  for  a  moment.  I  took  charge  of  my  party,  went  to  where 
the  laborers  were  waiting  for  us  with  hand  cars,  and  we  soon  ar 
rived  at  the  scene  of  the  wreck.  A  day  or  two  before  our  arrival 
at  Burnsville  a  party  of  Confederate  cavalry  had  torn  up  the  track 
at  this  point,  and  wrecked  and  burnt  a  freight  train.  Some  horses 
on  the  train  had  been  killed  in  the  wreck ;  their  carcasses  were  ly 
ing  around,  and  were  rather  offensive.  The  trucks  and  other  iron 
work  of  the  cars  were  piled  on  the  track,  tangled  up,  and  all  out  of 
shape,  some  rails  removed  and  others  warped  by  heat,  and  things 
generally  in  a  badly  torn-up  condition.  The  main  dirt  road  forked 
here,  one  fork  going  diagonally  to  the  right  of  the  track 
and  the  other  to  the  left — both  in  an  easterly  direction.  I 
posted  three  men  and  a  corporal  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
front  on  the  track,  a  similar  squad  at  the  same  distance  on  each 
fork  of  the  dirt  road,  and  the  others  at  intervals  on  each  side  0f 
the  railroad  at  the  place  of  the  wreck.  The  laborers  went  to  work 
with  a  will,  and  about  the  time  the  owls  were  hooting  for  day 
the  foreman  reported  to  me  that  the  track  was  clear,  the  rails  re 
placed,  and  that  they  were  ready  to  return  to  Burnsville.  I  then 
drew  in  my  guards,  we  got  on  the  hand  cars,  and  were  soon  back 
in  town.  And  thus  ended  my  first,  and  only,  personal  supervision 
of  the  work  of  repairing  a  break  in  a  railroad. 

I  barely  had  time  to  make  my  coffee  and  toast  a  piece  of  bacon 
when  the  bugle  sounded  "Fall  in!"  and  soon  (that  being  the 
morning  of  September  21st)  we  started  on  the  back  track,  and 
that  day  marched  to  Corinth.  It  so  happened  that  on  this  march 
our  regiment  was  at  the  head  of  the  column.  The  proper  place 
of  my  company,  according  to  army  regulations,  was  the  third  from 
the  right  or  head  of  the  line,  but  from  some  cause — I  never  knew 
what — on  that  day  we  were  placed  at  the  head.  And,  as  I  was 


THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  103 

then  acting  as  first  sergeant  of  our  company,  that  put  me  the  head 
man  on  foot.  These  details  are  mentioned  for  the  reason  that  all 
that  day  I  marched  pretty  close  to  the  tail  of  the  horse  that  Gen. 
Ord  was  riding,  and  with  boyish  curiosity,  I  scanned  the  old  gen 
eral  closely.  He  was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  and  an  old  regular. 
He  had  served  in  the  Florida  and  the  Mexican  wars,  and  he  also 
had  been  in  much  scrapping  with  hostile  Indians  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Pacific  Coast.  He  looked  old  to  me,  but  really  he  was,  at  this 
time,  only  about  forty-four  years  of  age.  He  certainly  was  in 
different  to  his  personal  appearance,  as  his  garb  was  even  plainer, 
and  more  careless,  than  Grant's.  He  wore  an  old  battered  felt 
hat,  with  a  flapping  brim,  and  his  coat  was  one  of  the  old-fashioned, 
long-tailed  oil-cloth  "wrap-rascals"  then  in  vogue.  It  was  all 
splattered  with  mud,  with  several  big  torn  places  in  it.  There 
was  not  a  thing  about  him,  that  I  could  see,  to  indicate  his  rank. 
Later  he  was  transferred  to  the  eastern  armies,  eventually  was 
assigned  to  the  command  of  the  Army  of  the  James,  and  took  an 
active  and  prominent  part  in  the  operations  that  culminated  in 
the  surrender  of  Lee  at  Appomattox. 

We  reached  Corinth  that  evening,  went  into  bivouac,  and  re 
mained  there  a  couple  of  days.  On  the  morning  of  September 
24th  we  fell  in,  marched  down  to  the  depot,  climbed  on  cars,  and 
were  soon  being  whirled  north  to  Jackson,  on  the  Mobile  and  Ohio 
railroad.  We  arrived  there  about  noon,  and  at  once  transferred  to 
a  train  on  the  Mississippi  Central  track  and  which  forthwith 
started  for  Bolivar.  I  think  the  train  we  came  on  to  Jackson  went 
right  back  to  Corinth  to  bring  up  more  troops.  We  common  sol 
diers  could  not  imagine  what  this  hurried  rushing  around  meant, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  we  found  out.  But  history  shows 
that  Grant  was  much  troubled  about  this  time  as  to  whether  a 
threatened  Confederate  attack  would  be  delivered  at  Corinth  or 
at  Bolivar.  However,  about  the  22nd,  the  indications  were  that 
Bolivar  would  be  assailed,  and  troops  were  at  once  brought  from 
Corinth  to  resist  this  apprehended  movement  of  the  Confederates. 

This  probably  is  a  fitting  place  for  something  to  be  said  about 


104  THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

our  method  of  traveling  by  rail  during  the  Civil  war,  as  compared 
with  the  conditions  of  the  present  day  in  that  regard.  At  the 
time  I  am  now  writing,  about  fifteen  thousand  United  States  sol 
diers  have  recently  been  transported  on  the  cars  from  different 
places  in  the  interior  of  the  country,  to  various  points  adjacent  to 
the  Mexican  border,  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  American  in 
terests.  And  it  seems  that  in  some  cases  the  soldiers  were  car 
ried  in  ordinary  passenger  coaches.  Thereupon  bitter  complaints 
were  made  on  behalf  of  such  soldiers  because  Pullman  sleepers 
were  not  used !  And  these  complaints  were  effective,  too,  for,  ac 
cording  to  the  press  reports  of  the  time,  the  use  of  passenger 
coaches  for  suclh  purposes  was  summarily  stopped  and  Pullmans 
were  hurriedly  concentrated  at  the  places  needed,  and  the  soldiers 
went  to  war  in  them.  Well,  in  our  time,  the  old  regiment  was 
hauled  over  the  country  many  times  on  trains,  the  extent  of  our 
travels  in  that  manner  aggregating  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
miles.  And  such  a  thing  as  even  ordinary  passenger  coaches  for 
the  use  of  the  enlisted  men  was  never  heard  of.  And  I  have  no 
recollection  now  that  (during  the  war)  any  were  provided  for  the 
use  of  the  commissioned  officers,  either,  unless  they  were  of  pretty 
high  rank.  The  cars  that  we  rode  in  were  the  box  or  freight 
cars  in  use  in  those  days.  Among  them  were  cattle  cars,  flat  or 
platform  cars,  and  in  general  every  other  kind  of  freight  car  that 
could  be  procured.  We  would  fill  the  box  cars,  and  in  addition 
clamber  upon  the  roofs  thereof  and  avail  ourselves  of  every  foot 
of  space.  And  usually  there  was  a  bunch  on  the  cow-catchers. 
The  engines  used  wood  for  fuel;  the  screens  of  the  smoke-stacks 
must  have  been  very  coarse,  or  maybe  they  had  none  at  all,  and 
the  big  cinders  would  patter  down  on  us  like  hail.  So,  when  we 
came  to  the  journey's  end,  by  reason  of  the  cinders  and  soot  we 
were  about  as  dirty  and  black  as  any  regiment  of  sure-enough 
colored  troops  that  fought  under  the  Union  flag  in  the  last  years 
of  the  war.  When  the  regiment  was  sent  home  in  September, 
1865,  some  months  ajfter  the  war  was  over,  the  ennsted  men  made 
even  that  trip  in  our  old  friends,  the  box  cars.  It  is  true  that  on 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  105 

this  occasion  there  was  a  passenger  coach  for  the  use  of  the  com 
missioned  officers,  and  that  is  the  only  time  that  A  ever  saw  such 
a  coach  attached  to  a  train  on  which  the  regiment  was  taken  any 
where.  Now,  don't  misunderstand  me.  I  am  xiot  kicking  be 
cause,  more  than  half  a  century  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War, 
Uncle  Sam  sent  his  soldier  boys  to  the  front  in  Pullmans.  The 
force  so  sent  was  small  and  the  government  could  well  afford  to  do 
it,  and  it  was  right.  I  just  want  you  to  know  Jiat  in  my  time, 
when  we  rode,  it  was  in  any  kind  of  an  old  f  reiguc  car,  and  we  were 
awful  glad  to  get  that.  And  now,  on  this  ma^er,  'The  words  of 
Job  are  ended." 

The  only  railroad  accident  I  ever  happened  to  be  in  was  one 
that  befell  our  train  as  we  were  in  the  act  of  leaving  Jackson  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  24th.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  hurry  and 
confusion  when  we  got  on  the  cars,  and  it  looked  like  it  was  every 
fellow  for  himself.  Jack  Medford  (my  chum)  and  I  were  run 
ning  along  the  side  of  the  track  looking  for  a  favorable  situation, 
when  we  came  to  a  flat  car  about  the  middle  of  the  train,  as  yet 
unoccupied.  "Jack,"  said  I,  "let's  get  on  this!"  He  was  a  little 
slow  of  speech;  he  stopped,  looked  and  commenced  to  say  some 
thing,  but  his  hesitation  lost  us  the  place, — and  was  fraught  with 
other  consequences.  Right  at  that  moment  a  bunch  of  the  12th 
Michigan  on  the  other  side  of  the  track  piled  on  the  car  quicker 
than  a  flash,  and  took  up  all  available  room.  Jack  and  I  then  ran 
forward  and  climbed  on  top  o<£  a  box  car,  next  to  the  tender  of  the 
engine,  and  soon  after  the  train  started.  It  had  not  yet  got  under 
full  head-way,  and  was  going  only  about  as  fast  as  a  man  could 
walk,  when,  from  some  cause,  the  rails  spread,  and  the  first  car 
to  leave  the  rails  was  the  flat  above  mentioned.  But  its  trucks 
went  bouncing  along  on  the  ties,  and  doubtless  nobody  would  have 
been  hurt,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  the  car  plunged  into  a 
cattle  guard,  of  the  kind  then  in  use.  This  guard  was  just  a  hole 
dug  in  the  track,  probably  four  or  five  feet  deep,  the  same  in  length, 
and  in'  width  extending  from  rail  to  rail.  Well,  the  front  end  of 
the  car  went  down  into  that  hole,  and  then  the  killing  began. 


106  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

They  stopped  the  train  very  quickly,  the  entire  event  couldn't  have 
lasted  more  than  half  a  minute,  but  that  flat  car  was  torn  to 
splinters,  three  soldiers  on  it  were  killed  dead,  being  frightfully 
crushed  and  mangled,  and  several  more  were  badly  injured.  The 
men  on  the  car  jumped  in  every  direction  when  the  car  began 
breaking  up,  and  so  the  most  of  them  escaped  unhurt.  If  the 
train  had  been  going  at  full  speed,  other  cars  would  have  been 
involved,  and  there  is  simply  no  telling  how  many  would  then  have 
been  killed  and  wounded. 

On  what  little  things  does  the  fate  of  man  sometimes  depend ! 
If  in  response  to  my  suggestion  Jack  Medford  had  promptly  said, 
"All  right,"  we  would  have  jumped  on  that  flat  car,  and  then 
would  have  been  caught  in  the  smash-up.  But  he  took  a  mere 
fraction  of  time  to  look  and  think,  and  that  brief  delay  was,  per 
haps,  our  temporal  salvation. 

We  arrived  at  Bolivar  during  the  afternoon  of  the  24th  and 
re-occupied  our  old  camp.  The  work  of  fortifying  that  place  was 
pushed  with  renewed  vigor,  and  strong  lines  of  breastworks,  with 
earthen  forts  at  intervals,  were  constructed  which  practically  in 
closed  the  entire  town.  But  we  never  had  occasion  to  use  them. 
Not  long  after  our  return  to  Bolivar,  Gen.  Grant  became  satisfied 
that  the  point  the  enemy  would  assail  was  Corinth,  so  the  most  of 
the  troops  at  Bolivar  were  again  started  to  Corinth,  to  aid  in  re 
pelling  the  impending  attack,  but  this  time  they  marched  overland. 
Our  regiment  and  two  others,  with  some  artillery,  were  left  to 
garrison  Bolivar.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  battle  of  Cor 
inth  was  fought,  on  our  part,  by  the  command  of  Gen.  Rosecrans 
on  October  4th,  and  the  battle  of  Hatchie  Bridge  the  next  day  by 
the  column  from  Bolivar,  under  the  command  of  Gen.  Ord, — and 
we  missed  both  battles.  For  my  part,  I  then  felt  somewhat  cha 
grined  that  we  didn't  get  to  take  part  in  either  of  those  battles. 
Here  we  had  been  rushed  around  the  country  from  pillar  to  post, 
hunting  for  trouble,  and  then  to  miss  both  these  fights  was  just  a 
little  mortifying.  However,  the  common  soldier  can  only  obey 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  107 

orders,  and  stay  where  he  is  put,  and  doubtless  it  was  all  for  the 
best. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  October  9th,  a  force  of  about  four 
thousand  men,  including  our  regiment,  started  from  Bolivar, 
marching  southwest  on  the  dirt  road.  We  arrived  at  Grand 
Junction  at  dark,  after  a  march  of  about  twenty  miles.  Grand 
Junction  was  the  point  where  the  Memphis  &  Charleston  and  the 
Mississippi  Central  railroads  crossed.  We  had  not  much  more  than 
stacked  arms,  and  of  course  before  I  had  time  to  cook  my  supper, 
when  I  was  detailed  for  picket,  and  was  on  duty  all  night.  But 
I  didn't  go  supperless  by  any  means,  as  I  made  coffee  and  fried 
some  bacon  at  the  picket  post.  Early  next  morning  the  command 
fell  in  line,  and  we  all  marched  back  to  Bolivar  again.  We  had 
hardly  got  started  before  it  began  to  rain,  and  just  poured  down 
all  day  long.  But  the  weather  was  pleasant,  we  took  off  our  shoes 
and  socks  and  rolled  up  our  breeches,  after  the  manner  heretofore 
described,  and  just  "socked  on"  through  the  yellow  mud,  whoop 
ing  and  singing,  and  as  wet  as  drowned  'rats.  We  reached  Bolivar 
some  time  after  dark.  The  boys  left  there  in  camp  in  some  way 
had  got  word  that  we  were  on  the  return,  and  had  prepared  for  us 
some  camp-kettles  full  of  hot,  strong  coffee,  with  plenty  of  fried 
sow-belly, — so  we  had  a  good  supper.  What  the  object  of  the  ex 
pedition  was,  and  what  caused  us  to  turn  back,  I  have  never 
learned,  or  if  I  did,  have  now  forgotten. 

On  returning  to  Bolivar  we  settled  down  to  the  usual  routine 
of  battalion  drill  and  standing  picket.  The  particular  guard  duty 
the  regiment  performed  nearly  all  the  time  we  were  at  Bolivar 
(with  some  casual  exceptions)  was  guarding  the  railroad  from 
the  bridge  over  Hatchie  river,  north  to  Toone's  Station,  a  distance 
of  about  seven  miles.  Toone's  Station,  as  its  name  indicates,  was 
nothing  but  a  stopping  point,  with  a  little  rusty  looking  old 
frame  depot  and  a  switch.  The  usual  tour  of  guard  duty  was 
twenty-four  hours  all  the  while  I  was  in  the  service,  except  during 
this  period  of  railroad  guarding,  and  for  it  the  time  was  two  days 
and  nights.  Every  foot  of  the  railroad  had  to  be  vigilantly  watched 


108  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

to  prevent  its  being  torn  up  by  bands  of  guerrillas  or  disaffected 
citizens.  One  man  with  a  crow-bar,  or  even  an  old  ax,  could  re 
move  a  rail  at  a  culvert,  or  some  point  on  a  high  grade,  and  cause 
a  disastrous  wreck. 

I  liked  this  railroad  guard  duty.  Between  Bolivar  and 
Toone's  the  road  ran  through  dense  woods,  with  only  an  occasional 
little  farm  on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  be  out 
in  those  fine  old  woods,  and  far  away  from  the  noise  and  smells  of 
the  camps.  And  there  are  so  many  things  that  are  strange  and 
attractive,  to  be  seen  and  heard,  when  one  is  standing  alone  on 
picket,  away  out  in  some  lonesome  place,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  I  think  that  a  man  who  has  never  spent  some  wakeful 
hours  in  the  night,  by  himself,  out  in  the  woods,  has  simply  missed 
one  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  life.  The  night  is  the  time 
when  most  of  the  wild  things  are  astir,  and  some  of  the  tame  ones, 
too.  There  was  some  kind  of  a  very  small  frog  in  the  swamps 
and  marshes  near  Bolivar  that  gave  forth  about  the  most  plaintive 
little  cry  that  I  ever  heard.  It  was  very  much  like  the  bleating  of  a 
young  lamb,  and,  on  hearing  it  the  first  time,  I  thought  sure  it  was 
from  some  little  lamb  that  was  lost,  or  in  distress  of  some  kind.  I 
never  looked  the  matter  up  to  ascertain  of  what  particular  species 
those  frogs  were.  They  may  be  common  throughout  the  South,  but 
I  never  heard  this  particular  call  except  around  and  near  Bolivar. 
And  the  woods  between  Bolivar  and  Toone's  were  full  of  owls,  from 
great  big  fellows  with  a  thunderous  scream,  down  to  the  little 
screech  owls,  who  made  only  a  sort  of  chattering  noise.  One  never 
failing  habit  of  the  big  owls  was  to  assemble  in  some  grove  of  tall 
trees  just  about  daybreak,  and  have  a  morning  concert,  that  could 
be  heard  half  a  mile  away.  And  there  were  also  whippoorwills,  and 
mocking  birds,  and,  during  the  pleasant  season  of  the  year,  myr 
iads  of  insects  that  would  keep  sounding  their  shrill  little  notes 
the  greater  part  of  the  night.  And  the  only  time  one  sees  a  flying 
squirrel,  (unless  you  happen  to  cut  down  the  tree  in  whose  hollow 
he  is  sleeping,)  is  in  the  night  time.  They  are  then  abroad  in  full 
force. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  109 

When  on  picket  in  my  army  days  I  found  out  that  dogs  are 
great  nocturnal  ramblers.  I  have  been  on  guard  at  a  big  tree,  on 
some  grass-grown  country  road,  when  something  would  be  heard 
coming  down  the  road  towards  me;  pat,  pat,  pitty-pat, — then  it 
would  stop  short.  The  night  might  be  too  dark  for  me  to  see  it, 
but  I  knew  it  must  be  a  dog.  It  would  stand  silent  for  a  few  sec 
onds,  evidently  closely  scrutinizing  that  man  alone  under  the  tree, 
with  something  like  a  long  shining  stick  in  his  hands;  then  it 
would  stealthily  leave  the  road,  and  would  be  heard  rustling 
through  the  leaves  as  it  made  a  half  circle  through  the  woods  to 
get  by  me.  On  reaching  the  road  below  me,  its  noise  would  cease 
for  a  little  while, — it  was  then  looking  back  over  its  shoulder  to  see 
if  that  man  was  still  there.  Having  satisfied  itself  on  that  point, 
then — pat,  pat,  pitty-pat,  and  it  went  off  in  a  trot  down  the  road. 
When  you  see  an  old  farm  dog  asleep  in  the  sun  on  the  porch  in  the 
day  time,  with  his  head  between  his  paws,  it  is,  as  a  general  rule, 
safe  to  assume  that  he  was  up  and  on  a  scout  all  the  previous 
night,  and  maybe  traveled  ten  or  fifteen  miles.  Cats  are  also  con 
firmed  night  prowlers,  but  I  don't  think  they  wander  as  far  as  dogs. 
Later,  when  we  were  in  Arkansas,  sometimes  a  full  grown  bear 
would  walk  up  to  some  drowsy  picket,  and  give  him  the  surprise  of 
his  life. 

One  quiet,  star-lit  summer  night,  while  on  picket  between  Boli 
var  and  Toone's,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  witness  the  flight  of  the 
largest  and  most  brilliant  meteor  I  ever  have  seen.  It  was  a  little 
after  midnight,  and  I  was  standing  alone  at  my  post,  looking,  list 
ening,  and  thinking.  Suddenly  there  came  a  loud,  rushing,  roaring 
sound,  like  a  passenger  train  close  by,  going  at  full  speed,  and  there 
in  the  west  was  a  meteor!  Its  flight  was  from  the  southwest  to 
the  northeast,  parallel  with  the  horizon,  and  low  down.  Its  head, 
or  body,  looked  like  a  huge  ball  of  fire,  and  it  left  behind  a  long,  im 
mense  tail  of  brilliant  white,  that  lighted  up  all  the  western  heavens. 
While  yet  in  full  view,  it  exploded  with  a  crash  like  a  near-by  clap 
of  thunder,  there  was  a  wide,  glittering  shower  of  sparks, — and 
then  silence  and  darkness.  The  length  of  time  it  was  visible  could 


110  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

not  have  been  more  than  a  few  seconds,  but  it  was  a   most    ex 
traordinary  spectacle. 

On  October  19th  the  regiment  (except  those  on  guard  duty) 
went  as  escort  of  a  foraging  expedition  to  a  big  plantation  about 
twelve  miles  from  Bolivar  down  the  Hatchie  river.  We  rode  there 
and  back  in  the  big  government  wagons,  each  wagon  being  drawn 
by  a  team  of  six  mules.  Like  Joseph's  brethren  when  they  went 
down  into  Egypt,  we  were  after  corn.  The  plantation  we  foraged 
was  an  extensive  one  on  the  fertile  bottom  land  of  the  Hatchie 
river,  and  the  owner  that  year  had  grown  several  hundred  acres 
of  corn,  which  had  all  been  gathered,  or  shocked,  and  we  just  took 
it  as  we  found  it.  The  people  evidently  were  wealthy  for  that  time 
and  locality,  many  slaves  were  on  the  place,  and  it  was  abounding 
in  live  stock  and  poultry  of  all  kinds.  The  plantation  in  ^general 
presented  a  scene  of  rural  plenty  and  abundance  that  reminded  me 
of  the  home  of  old  Baltus  Van  Tassel,  as  described  by  Washington 
Irving  in  the  story  of  "The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow," — with  this 
difference :  Everything  about  the  Tennessee  plantation  was  dirty, 
out  of  order,  and  in  general  higgledy-piggledy  condition.  And  the 
method  of  farming  was  slovenly  in  the  extreme.  The  cultivated 
land  had  been  cleared  by  cutting  away  the  underbrush  and  small 
trees,  while  the  big  ones  had  merely  been  "deadened,"  by  girdling 
them  near  the  ground.  These  dead  trees  were  all  standing  in 
ghastly  nakedness,  and  so  thick  in  many  places  that  it  must  have 
been  difficult  to  plow  through  them,  while  flocks  of  crows  and 
buzzards  were  sailing  around  them  or  perched  in  their  tops,  caw 
ing  and  croaking,  and  thereby  augmenting  the  woe-begone  looks 
of  things.  The  planter  himself  was  of  a  type  then  common  in  the 
South.  He  was  a  large,  coarse  looking  man,  with  an  immense 
paunch,  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  home-made  straw  hat  and  butter 
nut  jeans  clothes.  His  trousers  were  of  the  old-fashioned,  "broad- 
fall"  pattern.  His  hair  was  long,  he  had  a  scraggy,  sandy  beard, 
and  chewed  "long  green"  tobacco  continually  and  viciously.  But 
he  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  ugly  talk  on  his  part  wouldn't 
mend  matters,  but  only  make  them  worse,  so  he  stood  around  in 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  Ill 

silence  while  we  took  his  corn,  but  he  looked  as  malignant  as  a 
rattlesnake.  His  wife  was  directly  his  opposite  in  appearance  and 
demeanor.  She  was  tall,  thin,  and  bony,  with  reddish  hair  and  a 
sharp  nose  and  chin.  And  goodness,  but  she  had  a  temper!  She 
stood  in  the  door  of  the  dwelling  house,  and  just  tongue-lashed  us 
"Yankees,"  as  she  called  us,  to  the  full  extent  of  her  ability.  The 
boys  took  it  all  good  naturedly,  and  didn't  jaw  back.  We  couldn't 
afford  to  quarrel  with  a  woman.  A  year  later,  the  result  of  her 
abuse  would  have  been  the  stripping  of  the  farm  of  every  hog  and 
head  of  poultry  on  it,  but  at  this  time  the  orders  were  strict  against 
indiscriminate,  individual  foraging,  and  except  one  or  two  bee- 
stands  full  of  honey,  nothing  was  taken  but  the  corn.  And  I  have 
no  doubt  that  long  ere  this  the  Government  has  paid  that  planter, 
or  his  heirs,  a  top-notch  price  for  everything  we  took.  It  seems 
to  be  easy,  now-a-days,  to  get  a  special  Act  through  Congress,  mak 
ing  "full  compensation"  in  cases  of  that  kind. 

Not  long  after  the  foregoing  expedition,  I  witnessed  a  some 
what  amusing  .incident  one  night  on  the  picket  line.  One  day,  for 
some  reason,  the  regiment  was  required,  in  addition  to  the  railroad 
guards,  to  furnish  a  number  of  men  for  picket  duty.  First  Lieut. 
Sam  T.  Carrico,  of  Co.  B,  was  the  officer,  and  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  be 
the  sergeant  of  the  guard.  We  picketed  a  section  of  the  line  a  mile 
or  so  southwest  of  Bolivar,  and  the  headquarters  post,  where  the 
lieutenant  and  the  sergeant  of  the  guard  stayed,  was  at  a  point 
on  a  main  traveled  road  running  southwest  from  the  town.  It  was 
in  the  latter  part  of  October,  and  the  night  was  a  bad  and  cold  one. 
Lieut.  Carrico  and  I  had  "doubled  up,"  spread  one  of  our  blankets 
on  the  ground,  and  with  the  other  drawn  over  us,  were  lying  down 
and  trying  to  doze  a  little,  when  about  ten  o'clock  we  heard  a  horse 
man  coming  at  full  speed  from  the  direction  of  Bolivar.  We  there 
upon  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  awaited  developments.  The 
horseman,  on  nearing  our  post  and  being  challenged,  responded, 
"Friend,  without  the  countersign!"  and  in  a  peremptory  manner 
told  the  sentinel  on  duty  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  officer  of  the 
guard.  Lieut.  Carrico  and  I  walked  up  to  the  horseman,  and,  on 


112  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

getting  close  to  him,  saw  that  he  was  a  Union  officer  of  the  rank  of 
Captain.  Addressing  himself  to  the  lieutenant,  in  a  loud  and  hasty 
manner  he  told  him  his  story,  which,  in  substance,  was  that  he  was 
Captain  -  -  (giving  his  name),  on  Gen.  Grant's  staff,  that  he 
had  just  arrived  in  Bolivar  on  the  train  from  Memphis,  that  he 
had  important  business  a  few  miles  outside  of  the  lines,  and  being 
in  a  great  hurry,  he  had  not  gone  to  post  headquarters  to  get  the 
countersign,  as  he  felt  satisfied  that  the  statement  of  his  rank  and 
business  would  be  sufficient  to  insure  his  being  passed  through  the 
picket  line,  and  so  on.  Lieut.  Carrico  listened  in  silence  until  the 
fellow  finished,  and  then  said,  quietly  but -very  firmly,  "Captain,  if 
you  claimed  to  be  Gen.  Grant  himself,  you  shouldn't  pass  through 
my  line  without  the  countersign."  At  this  the  alleged  ''staff  officer" 
blew  up,  and  thundered  and  bullied  at  a  great  rate.  Carrico  was 
not  much  more  than  a  boy,  being  only  about  twenty-two  years  old, 
and  of  slight  build,  but  he  kept  perfectly  cool  and  remained  firm 
as  a  rock.  Finally  the  officer  wheeled  his  horse  around  and  started 
back  to  town  at  a  furious  gallop.  Carrico  then  walked  up  to  the 
sentinel  on  duty  and  said  to  him,  "Now,  if  that  fellow  comes  back, 
you  challenge  him,  and  make  him  conform  to  every  item  of  the 
army  regulations;"  and  to  make  sure  about  it,  he  gave  the  guard 
specific  instructions  as  to  his  duties  in  such  cases.  We  stood  around 
and  waited,  and  it  was  not  long  before  we  heard  the  horseman  re 
turning  at  his  usual  rate  of  speed.  He  never  checked  his  gait  until 
the  challenge  of  the  sentinel  rang  out,  "Halt!  Who  comes  there?" 
"Friend,  with  the  countersign!"  was  the  answer.  "Dismount, 
friend,  advance,  and  give  the  countersign !"  cried  the  sentinel. 
Kuh-sock,  went  the  fine,  high-top  boots  of  the  rider  in  the  mud,  and 
leading  his  horse,  he  walked  up,  gave  the  talismanic  word,  to  which 
the  response  was  made,  "Countersign's  correct !  Pass,  friend."  The 
officer  then  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  rode  up  to  the  lieutenant  and 
me.  Taking  a  memorandum  book  and  pencil  from  one  of  his  pock 
ets,  he  said  to  Carrico,  "Give  me  your  name,  company,  and  regi 
ment,  sir."  "Samuel  T.  Carrico,  first  lieutenant  Co.  B,  61st  Illinois 
Infantry."  The  officer  scribbled  in  his  note-book,  then  turned  to 


1st  Lieutenant  Co.  B,  61st  Illinois  Infantry. 
Bolivar,  Tenn.,  Oct.,  1862. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  113 

me,  "And  yours?"  "Leander  Stillwell,  sergeant  Co.  D,  61st  Illinois 
Infantry ;"  and  that  answer  was  also  duly  recorded.  "Good  night, 
gentlemen;  you'll  render  an  account  for  this  outrage  later;"  and 
with  this  parting  salutation,  the  officer  galloped  away.  "All  right !" 
Carrico  called  after  him,  "you  know  where  to  find  us."  The  victim 
of  the  "outrage"  had  not  returned  when  we  were  relieved  at  9 
o'clock  the  next  morning,  and  we  never  saw  or  heard  of  him  any 
more.  Of  course  his  threat  on  leaving  us  was  pure  bluff,  for  Lieut. 
Carrico  had  only  done  his  plain  and  simple  duty.  The  fellow  was 
probably  all  right;  his  returning  with  the  countersign  would  indi 
cate  it.  But  his  "important  business"  was  doubtless  simply  to  keep 
a  date  with  some  lady-love  out  in  the  country,  and  he  wanted  to 
meet  her  under  the  friendly  cover  of  the  night. 

A  few  words  will  here  be  said  in  the  nature  of  a  deserved  trib 
ute  to  Lieut.  Carrico.  Later  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  Captain  of  his 
company,  and  was  one  among  the  very  best  and  bravest  of  the  line 
officers  of  the  -regiment.  He  had  nerves  like  hammered  steel,  and 
was  as  cool  a  man  in  action  as  I  ever  have  known.  Of  all  the  offi 
cers  of  the  regiment  who  were  mustered  in  at  its  organization,  he 
is  now  the  only  survivor.  He  is  living  at  Alva,  Oklahoma,  and  is 
a  hale,  hearty  old  man. 


114  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  SALEM  CEMETERY.— JACKSON,  CARROLL 
STATION.— DECEMBER,  1862,  JANUARY,  1863.— 

BOLIVAR.— FEBRUARY-MAY,   1863. 

On  the  afternoon  of  December  18th,  suddenly,  without  any 
previous  warning  or  notification,  the  bugle  sounded  "Fall  in!"  and 
all  the  regiment  fit  for  duty  and  not  on  guard  at  once  formed  on 
the  regimental  parade  ground.  From  there  we  marched  to  the 
depot,  and  with  the  43rd  Illinois  of  our  brigade  got  on  the  cars,  and 
were  soon  being  whirled  over  the  road  in  a  northerly  direction.  It 
was  a  warm,  sunshiny  day,  and  we  common  soldiers  supposed  we 
were  going  on  just  some  little  temporary  scout,  so  we  encumbered 
ourselves  with  nothing  but  our  arms,  and  haversacks,  and  can 
teens.  Neglecting  to  take  our  blankets  was  a  grievous  mistake,  as 
later  we  found  out  to  our  sorrow.  We  arrived  at  Jackson  a  little 
before  sundown,  there  left  the  cars,  and,  with  the  43rd,  forthwith 
marched  out  about  two  miles  east  of  town.  A  little  after  dark  we 
halted  in  an  old  field  on  the  left  of  the  road,  in  front  of  a  little  old 
country  graveyard  called  Salem  Cemetery,  and  there  bivouacked 
for  the  night.  Along  in  the  evening  the  weather  turned  intensely 
cold.  It  was  a  clear,  star-lit  night,  and  the  stars  glittered  in  the 
heavens  like  little  icicles.  We  were  strictly  forbidden  to  build  any 
fires,  for  the  reason,  as  our  officers  truly  said,  the  Confederates 
were  not  more  than  half  a  mile  away,  right  in  our  front.  As  be 
fore  stated,  we  had  no  blankets,  and  how  we  suffered  with  the  cold ! 
I  shall  never  forget  that  night  of  December  18th,  1862.  We  would 
form  little  columns  of  twenty  or  thirty  men,  in  two  ranks,  and 
would  just  trot  round  and  round  in  the  tall  weeds  and  broom 
sedge  to  keep  from  chilling  to  death.  Sometimes  we  would  pile 
down  on  the  ground  in  great  bunches,  and  curl  up  close  together 
like  hogs,  in  our  efforts  to  keep  warm.  But  some  part  of  our  bodies 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  115 

would  be  exposed,  which  soon  would  be  stinging  with  cold,  then  up 
we  would  get  and  renew  the  trotting  process.  At  one  time  in  the 
night  some  of  the  boys,  rendered  almost  desperate  by  their  suffering 
«*£-,  started  to  build  a  fire  with  some  fence  rails.  The  red  flames 
began  to  curl  around  the  wood,  and  I  started  for  the  fire,  intending 
to  absorb  some  of  that  glowing  heat,  if,  as  Uncle  Remus  says,  "it 
wuz  de  las'  ack."  But  right  then  a  mounted  officer  dashed  up  to 
the  spot,  and  sprang  from  his  horse.  He  was  wearing  big  cavalry 
boots,  and  jumped  on  that  fire  with  both  feet  and  stamped  it  out 
in  less  time  than  I  am  taking  to  tell  about  it.  I  heard  afterwards 
that  he  was  Col.  Engelmann,  of  the  43rd  Illinois,  then  the  com 
mander  of  our  brigade.  Having  put  out  the  fire,  he  turned  on  the 
men  standing  around,  and  swore  at  them  furiously.  He  said  that 
the  rebels  were  right  out  in  our  front,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes 
after  we  had  betrayed  our  presence  by  fires,  they  would  open  on 
us  with  artillery,  and  "shell  hell  out  of  us ;" — and  more  to  the  same 
effect.  The  boys  listened  in  silence,  meek  as  lambs,  and  no  more 
fires  were  started  by  us  that  night.  But  the  hours  seemed  inter 
minably  long,  and  it  looked  like  the  night  would  never  come  to  an 
end.  At  last  some  little  woods  birds  were  heard,  faintly  chirping 
in  the  weeds  and  underbrush  near  by,  then  some  owls  set  up  a 
hooting  in  the  woods  behind  us,  and  I  knew  that  dawn  was  ap 
proaching.  When  it  became  light  enough  to  distinguish  one  an 
other,  we  saw  that  we  presented  a  doleful  appearance — all  hollow- 
eyed,  with  blue  noses,  pinched  faces,  and  shivering  as  if  we  would 
shake  to  pieces.  Permission  was  then  given  to  build  small  fires  to 
cook  our  breakfast,  and  we  didn't  wait  for  the  order  to  be  repeated. 
I  made  a  quart  canful  of  strong,  hot  coffee,  toasted  some  bacon  on 
a  stick,  and  then,  with  some  hardtack,  had  a  good  breakfast  and 
felt  better.  Breakfast  over  (which  didn't  take  long) ,  the  regiment 
was  drawn  back  into  the  cemetery,  and  placed  in  line  behind  the 
section  of  inclosing  fence  that  faced  to  the  front.  The  fence  was 
of  post  and  plank,  the  planks  arranged  lengthwise,  with  spaces  be 
tween.  We  were  ordered  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground,  and  keep  the 
barrels  of  our  guns  out  of  sight,  as  much  as  possible.  Our  posi- 


116  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

tion  in  general  may  be  described  about  as  follows:  The  right  of 
the  regiment  rested  near  the  dirt  road,  and  at  right  angles  to  it. 
The  ground  before  us  was  open  for  more  than  half  a  mile.  It 
sloped  down  gently,  then  it  rose  gradually  to  a  long,  bare  ridge,  or 
slight  elevation  of  ground,  which  extended  parallel  to  our  front. 
The  road  was  enclosed  by  an  old-time  staked  and  ridered  fence,  of 
the  "worm"  pattern.  On  our  right,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  was  a  thick  forest  of  tall  trees,  in  which  the  43rd  Illinois  was 
posted.  The  cemetery  was  thickly  studded  with  tall,  native  trees, 
and  a  few  ornamental  ones,  such  as  cedar  and  pine.  Soon  after  we 
had  been  put  in  position,  as  above  stated,  Col.  Engelmann,  the  bri 
gade  commander,  came  galloping  up,  and  stopped  about  opposite 
the  front  of  the  regiment.  Maj.  Ohr,  our  regimental  commander, 
who  was  in  the  rear  of  the  regiment  on  foot,  walked  out  to  meet 
him.  Engelmann  was  a  German,  and  a  splendid  officer. 

"Goot  morning,  Major,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice  we  all  heard. 
"How  are  de  poys?"  "All  right,"  answered  the  Major;  "we  had 
rather  a  chilly  night,  but  are  feeling  first  rate  now."  "Dat  iss 
goot,"  responded  the  Colonel;  and  continued  in  his  loud  tone,  "our 
friends  are  right  out  here  in  de  bush;  I  reckon  dey'll  show  up  pres 
ently.  Maybe  so  dey  will  give  us  a  touch  of  deir  artillery  practice, 
— but  dat  hurts  nobody.  Shoost  have  de  poys  keep  cool." 

Then  he  approached  the  Major  closer,  said  something  in  a  low 
tone  we  did  not  hear,  waved  his  hand  to  us,  and  then  galloped  oft' 
to  the  right.  He  was  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  sure  enough,  two 
or  three  cannon  shots  were  heard  out  in  front,  followed  by  a  scat 
tering  fire  of  small  arms.  We  had  a  small  force  of  our  cavalry  in 
the  woods  beyond  the  ridge  I  have  mentioned,  and  they  soon  ap 
peared,  slowly  falling  back.  They  were  spread  out  in  a  wide,  ex 
tended  skirmish  line,  and  acted  fine.  They  would  trot  a  little  ways 
to  the  rear,  then  face  about,  and  fire  their  carbines  at  the  ad 
vancing  foe,  who,  as  yet,  was  unseen  by  us.  Finally  they  galloped 
off  to  the  left  and  disappeared  in  the  woods,  and  all  was  still  for  a 
short  time.  Suddenly,  without  a  note  of  warning,  and  not  preceded 
by  even  a  skirmish  line,  there  appeared  coming  over  the  ridge  in 


THE^STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  117 

front,  and  down  the  road,  a  long  column  of  Confederate  cavalry! 
They  were,  when  first  seen,  at  a  walk,  and  marching  by  the  flank, 
with  a  front  of  four  men.  How  deep  the  column  was  we  could  not 
tell.  The  word  was  immediately  passed  down  our  line  not  to  fire 
until  at  the  word  of  command,  and  that  we  were  to  fire  by  file,  be 
ginning  on  the  right.  That  is,  only  two  men,  front  and  rear  rank, 
would  fire  together,  and  so  on,  down  the  line.  The  object  of  this 
was  apparent:  by  the  time  the  left  of  the  regiment  had  emptied 
their  guns,  the  right  would  have  reloaded,  and  thus  a  continuous 
firing  would  be  maintained.  With  guns  cocked  and  fingers  on  the 
triggers,  we  waited  in  tense  anxiety  for  the  word  to  fire.  Maj. 
Ohr  was  standing  a  few  paces  in  the  rear  of  the  center  of  the  regi 
ment,  watching  the  advance  of  the  enemy.  Finally,  when  they  were 
in  fair  musket  range,  came  the  order,  cool  and  deliberate,  without 
a  trace  of  excitement:  "At-ten-shun,  bat-tal-yun!  Fire  by  file! 
Ready! — Commence  firing!"  and  down  the  line  crackled  the  mus 
ketry.  Concurrently  with  us,  the  old  43rd  Illinois  on  the  right 
joined  in  the  serenade.  In  the  front  file  of  the  Confederate  column 
was  one  of  the  usual  fellows  with  more  daring  than  discretion,  who 
was  mounted  on  a  tall,  white  horse.  Of  course,  as  long  as  that 
horse  was  on  its  feet,  everybody  shot  at  him,  or  the  rider.  But 
that  luckless  steed  soon  went  down  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  that  was 
the  end  of  old  Whitey.  The  effect  of  our  fire  on  the  enemy  was 
marked  and  instantaneous.  The  head  of  their  column  crumpled  up 
instanter,  the  road  was  full  of  dead  and  wounded  horses,  while 
several  that  were  riderless  went  galloping  down  the  road  by  us, 
with  bridle  reins  and  stirrups  flapping  on  their  necks  and  flanks. 
I  think  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  Confederates  were  taken  com 
pletely  by  surprise.  They  stopped  short  when  we  opened  on  them, 
wheeled  around,  and  went  back  much  faster  than  they  came,  ex 
cept  a  little  bunch  who  had  been  dismounted.  They  hoisted  a 
white  rag,  came  in,  and  surrendered.  The  whole  affair  was  exceed 
ingly  "short  and  sweet;"  in  duration  it  could  not  have  exceeded 
more  than  a  few  minutes,  but  it  was  highly  interesting  as  long  as  it 
lasted.  But  now  the  turn  of  the  other  fellows  was  to  come.  Soon 


118  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

after  their  charging  column  disappeared  behind  the  ridge  in  our 
front,  they  put  in  position  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  two  black, 
snaky  looking  pieces  of  artillery,  and  began  giving  us  the  benefit  of 
the  "artillery  practice"  Col.  Engelmann  had  alluded  to.  They 
were  beyond  the  range  of  our  muskets;  we  had  no  artillery  with 
our  little  force,  and  just  had  to  lie  there  and  take  it.  I  know  noth 
ing  about  the  technicalities  of  cannon  firing,  so  I  can  only  describe 
in  my  own  language  how  it  appeared  to  us.  The  enemy  now  knew 
just  where  we  were,  there  were  no  obstructions  between  them  and 
us,  and  they  concentrated  their  fire  on  our  regiment.  Sometimes 
they  threw  a  solid  shot  at  us,  but  mostly  they  fired  shells.  They 
were  in  plain  sight,  and  we  could  see  every  movement  connected 
with  the  firing  of  the  guns.  After  a  piece  was  fired,  the  first  thing 
done  was  to  "swab"  it.  Two  men  would  rush  to  the  muzzle  with 
the  swabber,  give  it  a  few  quick  turns  in  the  bore,  then  throw  down 
the  swabber  and  grab  up  the  rammer.  Another  man  would  then 
run  forward  with  the  projectile  and  insert  it  in  the  muzzle  of  the 
piece,  the  rammers  would  ram  it  home,  and  then  stand  clear.  The 
man  at  the  breech  would  then  pull  the  lanyard, — and  now  look 
out !  A  tongue  of  red  flame  would  leap  from  the  mouth  of  the  can 
non,  followed  by  a  billow  of  white  smoke;  then  would  come  the 
scream  of  the  missile  as  it  passed  over  our  heads  (if  a  solid  shot) , 
or  exploded  near  our  front  or  rear  (if  a  shell),  and  lastly  we  would 
hear  the  report  of  the  gun.  Then  we  all  drew  a  long  breath. 
When  they  threw  shells  at  us  their  method  was  to  elevate  the  muz 
zle  of  the  gun,  and  discharge  the  missile  in  such  a  manner  that  it 
would  describe  what  I  suppose  would  be  called  the  parabola  of  a 
curve.  As  it  would  be  nearing  the  zenith  of  its  flight  we  could  fol 
low  it  distinctly  with  the  naked  eye.  It  looked  like  a  big,  black 
bug.  You  may  rest  assured  that  we  watched  the  downward  course 
of  this  messenger  of  mischief  with  the  keenest  interest.  Some 
times  it  looked  as  if  it  would  hit  our  line,  sure,  but  it  never  did. 
And,  as  stated,  we  could  only  lie  there  and  watch  all  this,  without 
the  power  on  our  part  to  do  a  thing  in  return.  Such  a  situation 
is  trying  on  the  nerves.  But  firing  at  our  line  was  much  like  shoot- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  119 

ing  at  the  edge  of  a  knife-blade,  and  their  practice  on  us,  which 
lasted  at  least  two  hours,  for  all  practical  results,  to  quote  Col. 
Engelmann,  "shoost  hurt  nobody."  A  private  of  Co.  G  had  his 
head  carried  away  by  a  fragment  of  a  shell,  and  a  few  others  were 
slightly  injured,  and  that  was  the  extent  of  our  casualties.  After 
enduring  this  cannonading  for  the  time  above  stated,  Col.  Engel 
mann  became  apprehensive  that  the  Confederate  cavalry  were 
flanking  us,  and  trying  to  get  between  us  and  Jackson,  so  he  or 
dered  our  force  to  retire.  We  fell  back,  in  good  order,  for  about  a 
mile,  then  halted,  and  faced  to  the  front  again.  Reinforcements 
soon  came  out  from  Jackson,  and  then  the  whole  command  ad 
vanced,  but  the  enemy  had  disappeared.  Our  regiment  marched  in 
column  by  the  flank  up  the  road  down  which  the  Confederates  had 
made  their  charge.  They  had  removed  their  killed  and  wounded, 
but  at  the  point  reached  by  their  head  of  column,  the  road  was 
full  of  dead  horses.  Old  Whitey  was  sprawled  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  lane,  "with  his  nostrils  all  wide,"  and  more  than  a  dozen  bullet 
holes  in  his  body.  Near  his  carcass  I  saw  a  bloody  yarn  sock,  with 
a  bullet  hole  square  through  the  instep.  1  maae  up  my  mind  then 
and  there,  that  if  ever  I  happened  to  get  into  the  cavalry  I  would, 
if  possible,  avoid  riding  a  white  horse. 

I  will  now  say  something  about  poor  Sam  Cobb,  heretofore 
mentioned,  and  then  he  will  disappear  from  this  history.  Sam  was 
with  us  at  the  beginning  of  this  affair  on  December  19th,  but  the 
very  instant  that  the  enemy  came  in  sight  he  broke  from  the  ranks 
and  ran,  and  never  showed  up  until  we  returned  to  Jackson  some 
days  later.  He  then  had  one  of  his  hands  tied  up,  and  claimed  that 
he  had  been  wounded  in  the  fight.  The  nature  of  his  wound  was 
simply  a  neat  little  puncture,  evidently  made  by  a  pointed  instru 
ment,  in  the  ball  of  the  forefinger  of  one  of  his  hands.  Not  a  shot 
had  been  fired  at  us  up  to  the  time  when  he  fled,  so  it  was  impos 
sible  for  his  hurt  to  have  been  inflicted  by  the  enemy.  It  was  the 
belief  of  all  of  us  that  he  had  put  his  forefinger  against  a  tree,  and 
then  jabbed  the  point  of  his  bayonet  through  the  ball  thereof.  I 
heard  Capt.  Reddish  in  bitter  language  charge  him  with  this  after- 


120  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

wards,  and  poor  Sam  just  hung  his  head  and  said  nothing.  When 
the  regiment  veteranized  in  1864,  Sam  didn't  re-enlist,  and  was 
mustered  out  in  February,  1865,  at  the  end  of  his  term  of  service. 
On  returning  to  his  old  home,  he  found  that  his  reputation  in  the 
army  had  preceded  him,  and  it  is  likely  that  the  surroundings  were 
riot  agreeable.  At  any  rate,  he  soon  left  there,  emigrated  to  a 
southwestern  State,  and  died  there  several  years  ago.  In  my  opin 
ion,  he  really  was  to  be  sincerely  pitied,  for  I  think,  as  he  had  told 
me  at  Bolivar,  he  just  "couldn't  help  it." 

We  advanced  this  day  (December  19)  only  two  or  three  miles 
beyond  Salem  Cemetery,  and  bivouacked  for  the  night  in  an  old 
field.  The  weather  had  changed,  and  was  now  quite  pleasant;  be 
sides,  the  embargo  on  fires  was  lifted,  so  the  discomfort  of  the 
previous  night  was  only  something  to  be  laughed  about.  The  next 
day  we  were  afoot  early,  and  marched  east  in  the  direction  of  Lex 
ington  about  fifteen  miles.  But  we  encountered  no  enemy,  and  on 
December  21  turned  square  around  and  marched  back  to  Jackson. 
Gen.  Forrest  was  in  command  of  the  Confederate  cavalry  operat 
ing  in  this  region,  and  he  completely  fooled  Gen.  J.  C.  Sullivan, 
the  Union  commander  of  the  district  of  Jackson.  While  we  were 
on  this  wild-goose  chase  towards  Lexington,  Forrest  simply 
whirled  around  our  flanks  at  Jackson,  and  swept  north  on  the  rail 
road,  scooping  in  almost  everything  to  the  Kentucky  line,  and  burn 
ing  bridges  and  destroying  culverts  on  the  railroad  in  great  shape. 

TDuring  our  short  stay  that  ensued  at  Jackson,  an  event  oc 
curred  that  I  have  always  remembered  with  pleasure.  In  1916  I 
wrote  a  brief  preliminary  statement  touching  this  Salem  Cemetery 
affair,  followed  by  one  of  my  army  letters,  the  two  making  a  con 
nected  article,  and  the  same  was  published  in  the  Erie  (Kansas) 
"Record."  It  may  result  in  some  repetition,  but  I  have  concluded 
to  here  reproduce  this  published  article,  which  I  have  called,  "A 
Soldier's  Christmas  Dinner." 

A  SOLDIER'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 
By  Judge  Leander  Stillwell. 

Christmas  Day  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  121 

was  a  gloomy  one,  in  every  respect,  for  the  soldiers  of  the  Union 
army  in  West  Tennessee.  Five  days  before,  the  Confederate  Gen 
eral  Van  Dorn  had  captured  Grant's  depot  of  supplies  at  Holly 
Springs,  and  government  stores  of  the  value  of  a  million  and  a 
half  of  dollars  had  gone  up  in  smoke  and  flame.  About  the  same 
time  Forrest  had  struck  the  Mobile  and  Ohio  railroad,  on  which  we 
depended  to  bring  us  from  the  north  our  supplies  of  hardtack  and 
bacon,  and  had  made  a  wreck  of  the  road  from  about  Jackson, 
Tennessee,  nearly  to  Columbus,  Kentucky.  For  some  months  pre 
vious  to  these  disasters  the  regiment  to  which  I  belonged,  the  61st 
Illinois  Infantry,  had  been  stationed  at  Bolivar,  Tennessee,  engaged 
in  guarding  the  railroad  from  that  place  to  Toone's  Station,  a  few 
miles  north  of  Bolivar.  On  December  18,  with  another  regiment 
of  our  brigade,  we  were  sent  by  rail  to  Jackson  to  assist  in  repell 
ing  Forrest,  who  was  threatening  that  place.  On  the  following 
day  the  two  regiments,  numbering  in  the  aggregate  about  500  men, 
in  connection  with  a  small  detachment  of  our  cavalry,  had  a  lively 
and  spirited  little  brush  with  the  Confederate  forces  about  two 
miles  east  of  Jackson,  near  a  country  burying  ground  called  Salem 
Cemetery,  which  resulted  in  our  having  the  good  fortune  to  give 
them  a  salutary  check. 

Reinforcements  were  sent  out  from  Jackson,  and  Forrest  dis 
appeared.  The  next  day  our  entire  command  marched  about  fif 
teen  miles  eastwardly  in  the  direction  of  the  Tennessee  river.  It 
was  doubtless  supposed  by  our  commanding  general  that  the  Con 
federates  had  retreated  in  that  direction,  but  he  was  mistaken. 
Forrest  had  simply  whipped  around  Jackson,  struck  the  railroad 
a  few  miles  north  thereof,  and  then  had  continued  north  up  the 
road,  capturing  and  destroying  as  he  went.  On  the  succeeding 
day,  December  21st,  we  all  marched  back  to  Jackson,  and  my  regi 
ment  went  into  camp  on  a  bleak,  muddy  hillside  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  town,  and  there  we  remained  until  December  29th,  when  we 
were  sent  to  Carroll  Station,  about  eight  miles  north  of  Jackson. 

I  well  remember  how  gloomy  I  felt  on  the  morning  of  that 
Christmas  Day  at  Jackson,  Tennessee.  I  was  then  only  a  little 


122  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

over  nineteen  years  of  age.  I  had  been  in  the  army  nearly  a  year, 
lacking  just  a  few  days,  and  every  day  of  that  time,  except  a  fur 
lough  of  two  days  granted  at  our  camp  of  instruction  before  we  left 
Illinois  for  the  front,  had  been  passed  with  the  regiment  in  camp 
and  field. 

Christmas  morning  my  thoughts  naturally  turned  to  the  little 
old  log  cabin  in  the  backwoods  of  western  Illinois,  and  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  about  the  nice  Christmas  dinner  that  I  knew  the 
folks  at  home  would  sit  down  to  on  that  day. 

There  would  be  a  great  chicken  pot  pie,  with  its  savory  crust 
and  a  superabundance  of  light,  puffy  dumplings;  delicious  light, 
hot  biscuits ;  a  big  ball  of  our  own  home-made  butter,  yellow  as 
gold;  broad  slices  of  juicy  ham,  the  product  of  hogs  of  our  own 
fattening,  and  home  cured  with  hickory-wood  smoke;  fresh  eggs 
from  the  barn  in  reckless  profusion,  fried  in  the  ham  gravy; 
mealy  Irish  potatoes,  baked  in  their  jackets;  coffee  with  cream 
about  half  an  inch  thick ;  apple  butter  and  crab  apple  preserves ;  a 
big  plate  of  wild  honey  in  the  comb ;  and  winding1  up  with  a  thick 
wedge  of  mince  pie  that  mother  knew  so  well  how  to  make — such 
mince  pie,  in  fact,  as  was  made  only  in  those  days,  and  is  now  as 
extinct  as  the  dodo.  And  when  I  turned  from  these  musings  upon 
the  bill  of  fare  they  would  have  at  home  to  contemplate  the  dreary 
realities  of  my  own  possible  dinner  for  the  day — -my  oyster  can 
full  of  coffee  and  a  quarter  ration  of  hardtack  and  sow-belly  com 
prised  the  menu.  If  the  eyes  of  some  old  soldier  should  light  upon 
these  lines,  and  he  should  thereupon  feel  disposed  to  curl  his  lip 
with  unutterable  scorn  and  say:  ''This  fellow  was  a  milksop  and 
ought  to  have  been  fed  on  Christian  Commission  and  Sanitary 
goods,  and  put  to  sleep  at  night  with  a  warm  rock;  at  his  feet;" — 
I  can  only  say  in  extenuation  that  the  soldier  whose  feelings  I  have" 
been  trying  to  describe  was  only  a  boy — and,  boys,  you  probably 
know  how  it  was  yourselves  during  the  first  year  of  your  army  life. 
But,  after  all,  the  soldier  had  a  Christmas  dinner  that  day,  and  it 
is  of  that  I  have  started  out  to  speak. 

Several  years  ago  my  old  army  letters,  which  had  been  so 


> 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  123 

carefully  kept  and  cherished  for  all  these  many  years,  passed 
from  the  keeping  of  those  to  whom  they  had  been  addressed,  back 
into  the  possession  of  him  who  penned  them,  and  now,  after  the 
lapse  of  fifty-four  years,  one  of  these  old  letters,  written  to  my 
father,  shall  re-tell  the  story  of  this  Christmas  dinner. 

"Jackson,  Tennessee, 

December  27,  1862. 
"Mr.  J.  O.  Stillwell, 

"Otter  Creek,  Illinois. 

"I  wrote  you  a  short  and  hasty  letter  the  fore  part  of  this  week 
to  let  you  know  that  I  was  all  right,  and  giving  you  a  brief  account 
of  our  late  ups  and  downs,  but  I  doubt  if  you  have  received  it.  The 
cars  have  not  been  running  since  we  came  back  to  Jackson  from 
our  march  after  Forrest.  The  talk  in  camp  is  that  the  rebs  have 
utterly  destroyed  the  railroad  north  of  here  clean  to  the  Mississip- 
ippi  river,  and  that  they  have  also  broken  it  in  various  places  and 
damaged  it  badly  south  of  here  between  Bolivar  and  Grand  Junc 
tion.  I  have  no  idea  when  this  letter  will  reach  you,  but  will  write 
it  anyhow,  and  trust  to  luck  and  Uncle  Sam  to  get  it  through  in 
course  of  time. 

"We  are  now  in  camp  on  a  muddy  hillside  in  the  outskirts  of 
Jackson.  I  think  the  spot  where  we  are  must  have  been  a  cavalry 
camp  last  summer.  Lots  of  corn  cobs  are  scattered  on  the  ground, 
old  scraps  of  harness  leather,  and  such  other  truck  as  accumulates 
where  horses  are  kept  standing  around.  When  we  left  Bolivar  we 
were  in  considerable  of  a  hurry,  with  no  time  to  primp  or  comb 
our  hair,  and  neither  did  we  bring  our  tents  along,  so  we  are  just 
living  out  of  doors  now,  and  "boarding  at  Sprawl's."  There  is 
plenty  of  wood,  though,  to  make  fires,  and  we  have  jayhawked 
enough  planks  and  boards  to  lie  on  to  keep  us  out  of  the  mud,  so 
we  just  curl  up  at  night  in  our  blankets  with  all  our  clothes  on, 
and  manage  to  get  along  fairly  well.  Our  worst  trouble  now  is 
the  lack  of  grub.  The  destruction  of  the  railroad  has  cut  off  our 
supplies,  and  there  is  no  telling  just  exactly  how  long  it  may  be 
before  it  will  be  fixed  and  in  running  order  again,  so  they  have 


124  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

been  compelled,  I  suppose,  to  cut  down  our  rations.  We  get  half 
rations  of  coffee,  and  quarter  rations  of  hardtack  and  bacon.  What 
we  call  small  rations,  such  as  Yankee  beans,  rice,  and  split  peas, 
are  played  out;  at  least,  we  don't  get  any.  The  hardtack  is  so 
precious  now  that  the  orderly  sergeant  no  longer  knocks  a  box 
open  and  lets  every  man  help  himself,  but  he  stands  right  over  the 
box  and  counts  the  number  of  tacks  he  gives  to  every  man.  I 
never  thought  I'd  see  the  day  when  army  hardtack  would  be  in 
such  demand  that  they'd  have  to  be  counted  out  to  the  soldiers  as 
if  they  were  money,  but  that's  what's  the  matter  now.  And  that 
ain't  all.  The  boys  will  stand  around  until  the  box  is  emptied,  and 
then  they  will  pick  up  the  fragments  that  have  fallen  to  the  ground 
in  the  divide,  and  scrape  off  the  mud  with  their  knives,  and  eat  the 
little  pieces,  and  glad  to  get  them.  Now  and  then,  to  help  out  the 
sow-belly,  we  get  quarter  rations  of  fresh  beef  from  the  carcass  of 
a  Tennessee  steer  that  the  quartermaster  manages  to  lay  hands 
on  somehow.  But  it's  awful  poor  beef,  lean,  slimy,  skinny  and 
stringy.  The  boys  say  that  one  can  throw  a  piece  up  against  a 
tree,  and  it  will  just  stick  there  and  quiver  and  twitch  for  all  the 
world  like  one  of  those  blue-bellied  lizards  at  home  will  do  when 
you  knock  him  off  a  fence  rail  with  a  stick. 

"I  just  wish  that  old  Forrest,  who  is  the  cause  of  about  all 
this  trouble,  had  to  go  without  anything  to  eat  until  he  was  so 
weak  that  he  would  have  to  be  fed  with  a  spoon.  Maybe  after  he 
had  been  hungry  real  good  for  a  while  he'd  know  how  it  feels  him 
self,  and  would  let  our  railroads  alone. 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  had  a  real  bully  Christmas  din 
ner,  in  spite  of  old  Forrest  and  the  whole  caboodle.  It  was  just  aj 
piece  of  the  greatest  good  luck  I've  had  for  many  a  day. 

"When  Christmas  morning  came  I  was  feeling  awful  blue.  In 
spite  of  all  I  could  do,  I  couldn't  help  but  think  about  the  good  dinJ 
ner  you  folks  at  home  would  have  that  day,  and  I  pictured  it  all] 
out  in  my  imagination.  Then  about  every  one  of  the  boys  had 
something  to  say  about  what  he  would  have  for  Christmas  dinner 
if  he  was  home,  and  they'd  run  over  the  list  of  good  things  till  it 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  125 

was  almost  enough  to  make  one  go  crazy.  To  make  matters  worse, 
just  the  day  before  in  an  old  camp  I  had  found  some  tattered  frag 
ments  of  a  New  York  illustrated  newspaper  with  a  whole  lot  of 

i  pictures  about  Thanksgiving  Day  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 
They  were  shown  as  sitting  around  piles  of  roast  turkeys,  pump- 

!  kin  pies,  pound  cake,  and  goodness  knows  what  else,  and  I  took  it 

!  for  granted  that  they  would  have  the  same  kind  of  fodder  today. 
You  see,  the  men  in  that  army,  by  means  of  their  railroads,  are 
only  a  few  hours  from  home,  and  old  Forrest  is  not  in  their  neigh 
borhood,  so  it  is  an  easy  thing  for  them  to  have  good  times.  And 
here  we  were,  away  down  in  Tennessee,  in  the  mud  and  the  cold, 

I  no  tents,  on  quarter  rations,  and  picking  scraps  of  hardtack  out  of 

i  the  mud  and  eating  them — it  was  enough  to  make  a  preacher 
swear.  But  along  about  noon  John  Richey  came  to  me  and  pro 
posed  that  inasmuch  as  it  was  Christmas  Day,  we  should  strike 
out  and  forage  for  a  square  meal.  It  didn't  take  much  persuasion, 
and  straightway  we  sallied  forth.  I  wanted  to  hunt  up  the  old 
colored  woman  who  gave  me  the  mess  of  boiled  roasting  ears 
when  we  were  here  last  summer,  but  John  said  he  thought  he  had 
a  better  thing  than  that,  and  as  he  is  ten  years  older  than  I  am,  I 
knocked  under  and  let  him  take  the  lead. 

"About  half  a  mile  from  our  camp,  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  we  came  to  a  large,  handsome,  two-story  and  a  half  frame 

i  house,  with  a  whole  lot  of  nigger  cabins  in  the  rear.  John  took  a 
survey  of  the  premises  and  said,  'Lee,  right  here's  our  meat/ 
We  went  into  the  yard  at  a  little  side  gate  between  the  big  house 
and  the  nigger  quarters,  and  were  steering  for  one  of  the  cabins, 
when  out  steps  from  the  back  porch  of  the  big  house  the  lady  of 
the  place  herself.  That  spoiled  the  whole  game ;  John  whirled  in 

i  his  tracks  and  commenced  to  sidle  away.  But  the  lady  walked  to 
wards  us  and  said  in  a  very  kind  and  friendly  manner:  'Do  you 
men  want  anything?'  'Oh,  no,  ma'am,'  replied  John;  'we  just 
came  here  to  see  if  we  could  get  some  of  the  colored  women  to  do 
some  washing  for  us,  but  I  guess  we'll  not  bother  about  it  today ;' 
still  backing  away  as  he  spoke.  But  the  lady  was  not  satisfied. 

! 


126  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

Looking  at  us  very  sharply,  she  asked:  'Don't  you  men  want 
something  to  eat  ?'  My  heart  gave  a  great  thump  at  that,  but,  to 
my  inexpressible  disgust,  John,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and 
nose  pointed  skyward,  answered,  speaking  very  fast,  'Oh,  no, 
ma'am,  not  at  all,  ma'am,  a  thousand  times  obleeged,  ma'am/  and 
continued  his  sneaking  retreat.  By  this  time  I  had  hold  of  the 
cape  of  his  overcoat  and  was  plucking  it  in  utter  desperation. 
'John,'  I  said,  speaking  low,  'what  in  thunder  do  you  mean  ?  This 
is  the  best  chance  we'll  ever  have.'  I  was  looking  at  the  lady 
meanwhile  in  the  most  imploring  manner,  and  she  was  regarding 
me  with  a  kind  of  a  pleasant,  amused  smile  on  her  face.  She  saw, 
I  guess,  a  mighty  dirty  looking  boy,  whose  nose  and  face  were 
pinched  and  blue  with  hunger,  cold,  loss  of  sleep,  and  hard  knocks 
generally,  and  she  brought  the  business  to  a  head  at  once.  'You 
men  come  right  in,'  she  said,  as  if  she  was  the  major-general  com 
manding  the  department.  'We  have  just  finished  our  dinner,  but 
in  a  few  minutes  the  servants  can  have  something  prepared  for 
you, — and  I  think  you  are  hungry.'  John,  with  the  most  aggra 
vating  mock  modesty  that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  began  saying: 
'We  are  very  much  obleeged,  ma'am,  but  we  haven't  the  slightest 

occasion  in  the  world  to  eat,  ma'am,  and  '  when  I  couldn't 

stand  it  any  longer  for  fear  he  would  ruin  everything  after  all. 
'Madam,'  I  said  'please  don't  pay  any  attention  to  what  my  part 
ner  says,  for  we  are  most  desperately  hungry.'  The  lady  laughed 
right  out  at  that,  and  said,  'I  thought  so ;  come  in.' 

"She  led  the  way  into  the  basement  story  of  the  house,  where 
the  dining  room  was,  (all  the  rich  people  in  the  South  have  their 
dining  rooms  in  the  basement,)  and  there  was  a  nice  warm  room, 
a  dining  table  in  the  center,  with  the  cloth  and  dishes  yet  on  it, 
and  a  big  fireplace  at  one  end  of  the  room,  where  a  crackling  wood 
fire  was  burning.  I  tell  you,  it  was  different  from  our  muddy  camp 
on  the  bleak  hillside,  where  the  wind  blows  the  smoke  from  our 
fires  of  green  logs  in  every  direction  about  every  minute  of  the  day. 
I  sat  down  by  the  fire  to  warm  my  hands  and  feet,  which  were  cold. 
A  colored  girl  came  in  and  commenced  to  arrange  the  table,  pass- 


THE  gTORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  127 

ing  back  and  forth  from  the  dining  room  to  the  kitchen,  and  in  a 
short  time  the  lady  told  us  that  our  dinner  was  ready,  to  sit  up  to 
the  table,  and  eat  heartily.  We  didn't  wait  for  a  second  invita 
tion  that  time.  And,  oh,  what  a  dinner  we  had!  There  was  a 
great  pile  of  juicy,  fried  beefsteak,  cooked  to  perfection  and  ten 
der  as  chicken;  nice,  warm  light  bread,  a  big  cake  of  butter, 
stewed  dried  apples,  cucumber  pickles,  two  or  three  kinds  of  pre 
serves,  coffee  with  sugar  and  cream,  and  some  of  the  best  molasses 
I  ever  tasted, — none  of  this  sour,  scorched  old  sorghum  stuff,  but 
regular  gilt-edge  first  class  New  Orleans  goldea  syrup,  almost  as 
sweet  as  honey.  Then,  to  top  off  with,  there  was  a  nice  stewed 
dried  apple  pie,  and  some  kind  of  a  custard  in  little  dishes,  some 
thing  different  from  anything  in  that  line  that  I  had  ever  seen 
before,  but  mighty  good.  And  then,  in  addition  to  all  that,  we 
were  seated  on  chairs,  at  a  table  with  a  white  cloth  on  it,  and  eat 
ing  out  of  china  plates  and  with  knives  and  forks,  a  colored  girl 
waiting  on  us,  and  the  lady  of  the  house  sitting  there  and  talking 
to  us  as  pleasantly  as  if  we  were  Grant  and  Halleck  in  person.  Un 
der  the  influence  of  the  good  grub,  John  thawed  out  considerably, 
and  made  a  full  confession  to  the  lady  about  his  queer  actions  at 
the  beginning.  He  told  her  that  we  were  going  to  the  nigger  quar 
ters  to  try  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  that  when  she  came  out 
and  gave  us  such  a  kind  invitation  to  come  in  the  house,  he  was 
too  much  ashamed  of  our  appearance  to  accept.  That  we  had 
come  up  from  Bolivar  about  a  week  before,  riding  on  top  of  the 
box  cars,  where  we  got  all  covered  with  smoke,  dust,  and  cinders; 
then  ordered  out  to  the  front  that  night,  then  the  fight  with  For 
rest  the  next  day,  then  the  march  towards  the  Tennessee  river  and 
back  of  about  forty  miles,  and  since  then  in  camp  with  no  shelter, 
tramping  around  in  the  mud,  and  sleeping  on  the  ground ;  that  on 
account  of  all  these  things  we  looked  so  rough  and  so  dirty  that  he 
just  felt  ashamed  to  go  into  a  nice  house  where  handsome,  well- 
dressed  ladies  were.  Oh!  I  tell  you,  old  John  is  no  slouch;  he 
patched  up  matters  remarkably  well.  The  lady  listened  atten 
tively,  said  she  knew  we  were  hungry  the  moment  she  saw  us, 


128  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON   SOLDIER. 

that  she  had  heard  the  soldiers  were  on  short  rations  in  conse 
quence  of  the  destruction  of  the  railroad,  and  turning  towards  me 
she  went  on  to  say:  'There  was  such  a  pitiful,  hungry  look  on 
this  boy's  face  that  it  would  have  haunted  me  for  a  long  time  if 
I  had  let  you  go  away  without  giving  you  a  dinner.  Many  a  hun 
gry  soldier/  she  continued,  'both  of  the  Northern  and  Southern 
army,  has  had  something  to  eat  at  this  table,  and  I  expect  many 
more  will  in  the  future,  before  this  terrible  and  distressing  war 
shall  have  come  to  an  end/  She  didn't  say  a  word,  though,  by 
which  we  could  teli» whether  her  sympathies  were  on  the  Union 
side  or  against  us,  and  of  course  we  didn't  try  to  find  out.  She  was 
just  the  sweetest  looking  woman  I  have  yet  seen  in  the  whole 
Southern  Confederacy.  If  they  have  any  angels  anywhere  that 
look  kinder,  or  sweeter,  or  purer  than  she  did,  I  would  just  like 
to  see  them  trotted  out.  I  guess  she  was  about  thirty-five  years 
old.  She  was  of  medium  height,  a  little  on  the  plump  order,  with 
blue  eyes,  brown  hair,  a  clear,  ruddy  complexion,  and  the  whitest, 
softest  looking  little  hands  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 

"When  we  had  finished  our  dinner,  John  and  I  thanked  her 
ever  so  many  times  for  her  kindness,  and  then  bade  her  a  most 
respectful  good-by.  He  and  I  both  agreed  on  our  way  back  to  camp 
to  say  nothing  about  the  lady  and  the  nice  dinner  she  gave  us, 
because  if  we  blowed  about  it,  the  result  would  probably  be  more 
hungry  callers  than  her  generosity  could  well  afford. 

"But  these  close  times  I  guess  are  not  going  to  last  much 
longer.  The  talk  in  camp  this  evening  is  that  we  are  going  to 
have  full  rations  once  more  in  a  day  or  two,  that  the  railroad  will 
soon  be  in  running  order  again,  and  then  we  can  just  snap  our 
fingers  at  old  Forrest  and  his  whole  outfit. 

"Well,  I  will  bring  my  letter  to  a  close.  Don't  worry  if  you 
fail  to  get  a  letter  from  me  now  as  regularly  as  before.  Things 
are  a  trifle  unsettled  down  here  yet,  and  we  may  not  be  able  to 
count  on  the  usual  regularity  of  the  mails  for  some  time  to  come. 

"So  goodby  for  this  time. 

"LEANDER  STILLWELL." 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  129 

Soon  after  we  returned  to  Jackson  a  detail  of  some  from  each 
company  was  sent  to  Bolivar  and  brought  up  our  knapsacks  and 
blankets,  and  we  were  then  more  comfortable.  On  December  29th, 
my  company  and  two  others  of  our  regiment  were  sent  by  rail  to 
Carroll  Station,  about  eight  miles  north  of  Jackson.  There  had 
been  a  detachment  of  about  a  hundred  men  of  the  106th  Illinois 
Infantry  previously  stationed  here,  guarding  the  railroad,  but 
Forrest  captured  them  about  December  20th,  so  on  our  arrival  we 
found  nothing  but  a  crude  sort  of  stockade,  and  the  usual  rubbish 
of  an  old  camp.  There  was  no  town  there,  it  consisted  only  of  a 
platform  and  a  switch.  Our  life  here  was  somewhat  uneventful, 
and  I  recall  now  only  two  incidents  which,  possibly,  are  worth  no 
ticing.  It  has  heretofore  been  mentioned  how  I  happened  to  learn 
when  on  picket  at  night  something  about  the  nocturnal  habits  of 
different  animals  and  birds.  I  had  a  somewhat  comical  experience 
in  this  respect  while  on  guard  one  night  near  Carroll"  Station.  But 
it  should  be  preceded  by  a  brief  explanation.  It  was  no  part  of  the 
duty  of  a  non-commissioned  officer  to  stand  a  regular  tour  of 
guard  duty,  with  his  musket  in  his  hands.  It  was  his  province  sim 
ply  to  exercise  a  general  supervisory  control  over  the  men  at  his 
post,  and  especially  to  see  that  they  relieved  each  other  at  the 
proper  time.  But  it  frequently  happened  in  our  regiment  that  our 
numbers  present  for  duty  were  so  diminished,  and  the  guard  details 
were  so  heavy,  that  the  sergeants  and  corporals  had  to  stand  as 
sentries  just  the  same  as  the  privates,  and  this  was  especially  so 
at  Carroll  Station. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  incident  about  to  be  mentioned,  the 
picket  post  was  on  the  crest  of  a  low  ridge,  or  slight  elevation, 
and  under  some  big  oak  trees  by  an  old  tumble-down  deserted  build 
ing  which  had  at  one  time  been  a  blacksmith  shop.  There  were 
three  of  us  on  this  post,  and  one  of  my  turns  came  at  midnight.  I 
was  standing  by  one  of  the  trees,  listening,  looking,  and  meditat 
ing.  The  night  was  calm,  with  a  full  moon.  The  space  in  our 
front,  sloping  down  to  a  little  hollow,  was  bare,  but  the  ascending 
ground  beyond  was  covered  with  a  dense  growth  of  young  oaks 


130  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

which  had  not  yet  shed  their  leaves.  We  had  orders  to  be  ex 
tremely  watchful  and  vigilant,  as  parties  of  the  enemy  were  sup 
posed  to  be  in  our  vicinity.  Suddenly  I  heard  in  front,  and  seem 
ingly  in  the  farther  edge  of  the  oak  forest,  a  rustling  sound  that 
soon  increased  in  volume.  Whatever  was  making  the  noise  was 
coming  my  way,  through  the  trees,  and  down  the  slope  of  the  op 
posite  ridge.  The  noise  grew  louder,  and  louder,  until  it  sounded 
just  like  the  steady  tramp,  over  the  leaves  and  dead  twigs,  of  a 
line  of  marching  men,  with  a  front  a  hundred  yards  in  width.  I 
just  knew  there  must  be  trouble  ahead,  and  that  the  Philistines 
were  upon  me.  But  a  sentinel  who  made  a  false  alarm  while  on 
duty  was  liable  to  severe  punishment,  and,  at  any  rate,  -,'ou\d  be 
laughed  at  all  over  the  regiment,  and  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  So 
I  didn't  wake  up  my  comrades,  but  got  in  the  shadow  of  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  cocked  my  gun,  and  awaited  developments.  And  soon 
they  came.  The  advancing  line  emerged  from  the  forest  into  the 
moonlight,  and  it  was  nothing  but  a  big  drove  of  hogs  out  on  a 
midnight  foraging  expedition  for  acorns  and  the  like!  Well,  I  let 
down  the  hammer  of  my  gun,  and  felt  relieved, — and  was  mighty 
glad  I  hadn't  waked  the  other  boys.  But  I  still  insist  that  this 
crackling,  crashing  uproar,  made  by  the  advance  of  the  "hog  bat 
talion"  through  the  underbrush  and  woods,  under  the  circum 
stances  mentioned,  would  have  deceived  "the  very  elect." 

A  few  days  later  I  was  again  on  picket  at  the  old  blacksmith 
shop.  Our  orders  were  that  at  least  once  during  the  day  one  of 
the  guard  should  make  a  scout  out  in  front  for  at  least  half  a  mile, 
carefully  observing  all  existing  conditions,  for  the  purpose  of  as 
certaining  if  any  parties  of  the  enemy  were  hovering  around  in 
our  vicinity.  On  this  day,  after  dinner,  I  started  out  alone,  on 
this  little  reconnoitering  expedition.  I  had  gone  something  more 
than  half  a  mile  from  the  post,  and  was  walking  along  a  dirt  road 
with  a  cornfield  on  the  left,  and  big  woods  on  the  right.  About  a 
hundred  yards  in  front,  the  road  turned  square  to  the  left,  with  a 
cornfield  on  each  side.  The  corn  had  been  gathered  from  the 
stalk,  and  the  stalks  were  still  standing.  Glancing  to  the  left,  I 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  131 

happened  to  notice  a  white  cloth  fluttering  above  the  cornstalks, 
at  the  end  of  a  pole,  and  slowly  moving  my  way.  And  peering 
through  the  tops  of  the  stalks  I  saw  coming  down  the  road  behind 
the  white  flag  about  a  dozen  Confederate  cavalry!  I  broke  into  a 
run,  and  soon  reached  the  turn  in  the  road,  cocked  my  gun,  leveled 
it  at  the  party,  and  shouted,  "Halt !"  They  stopped,  mighty  quick, 
and  the  bearer  of  the  flag  called  to  me  that  they  were  a  flag  of 
truce  party.  I  then  said,  "Advance,  One."  Whereupon  they  all 
started  forward.  I  again  shouted  "Halt!"  and  repeated  the  com 
mand,  "Advance,  One!"  The  leader  then  rode  up  alone,  I  keeping 
my  gun  cocked,  and  at  a  ready,  and  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  a  sort 
of  rambling,  disjointed  story  about  their  being  a  flag  of  truce  par 
ty,  on  business  connected  with  an  exchange  of  some  wounded  pris 
oners.  I  told  the  fellow  that  I  would  conduct  him  and  his  squad 
to  my  picket  post,  and  then  send  word  to  our  commanding  officer, 
and  he  would  take  such  action  as  he  thought  fit  and  proper.  On 
reaching  the  post,  I  sent  in  one  of  the  guards  to  the  station  to  re 
port  to  Lieut.  Armstrong,  in  command  of  our  detachment,  that 
there  was  a  flag  of  truce  party  at  my  post  who  desired  an  inter 
view  with  the  officer  in  command  at  Carroll  Station.  The  Lieu 
tenant  soon  arrived  with  an  armed  party  of  our  men,  and  he  and 
the  Confederate  leader  drew  apart  and  talked  awhile.  This  bunch 
of  Confederates  were  all  young  men,  armed  with  double-barreled 
shot-guns,  and  a  decidedly  tough-looking  outfit.  They  finally  left 
my  post,  escorted  by  Lieut.  Armstrong  and  his  guard,  and  I  under 
stood  in  a  general  way  that  he  passed  them  on  to  someone  higher 
in  authority  at  some  other  point  in  our  vicinity,  possibly  at  Jack 
son.  They  may  have  been  acting  in  good  faith,  but  from  the  man 
ner  of  their  leader,  and  the  story  he  told  me,  I  have  always  believed 
that  their  use  of  a  flag  of  truce  was  principally  a  device  to  obtain 
some  military  intelligence, — but,  of  course,  I  do  not  know.  My  re 
sponsibility  ended  when  Lieut.  Armstrong  reached  my  picket  post 
in  response  to  the  message  sent  him. 

We  remained  at  Carroll  Station  until  January  27,  1863,  were 
then  relieved  by  a  detachment  of  the  62nd  Illinois  Infantry,  and 


132  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

were  sent  by  rail  back  to  Bolivar,  where  we  rejoined  the  balance 
of  the  regiment.  We  then  resumed  our  former  duty  of  guarding 
the  railroad  north  to  Toone's  Station,  and  continued  at  this  until 
the  last  of  May,  1863.  But  before  taking  up  what  happened  then, 
it  will  be  in  order  to  speak  of  some  of  the  changes  that  in  the  mean 
time  had  occurred  among  the  commissioned  officers  of  my  com 
pany  and  of  the  regiment.  Capt.  Reddish  resigned  April  3rd, 
1863,  First  Lieutenant  Daniel  S.  Keeley  was  promoted  Captain  in 
his  place,  and  Thomas  J.  Warren,  the  sergeant-major  of  the  regi 
ment,  was  commissioned  as  First  Lieutenant  in  Keeley's  stead. 
Lieut.  Col.  Fry  resigned  May  14,  1863.  His  place  was  taken  by 
Major  Simon  P.  Ohr,  and  Daniel  Grass,  Captain  of  Co.  H,  was  made 
Major.  The  resignations  of  both  Fry  and  Reddish,  as  I  always  have 
understood,  were  because  of  ill-health.  They  were  good  and  brave 
men,  and  their  hearts  were  in  the  cause,  but  they  simply  were  too 
old  to  endure  the  fatigue  and  hardships  of  a  soldier's  life.  But 
they  each  lived  to  a  good  old  age.  Col.  Fry  died  in  Greene  county, 
Illinois,  January  27th,  1881,  aged  nearly  82  years ;  and  Capt.  Red 
dish  passed  away  in  Dallas  county,  Texas,  December  30th,  1881, 
having  attained  the  Psalmist's  limit  of  three  score  and  ten. 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  133 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  VICKSBURG.— JUNE  AND  JULY,  1863. 

General  Grant  closed  up  against  Vicksburg  on  May  19,  and  on 
that  day  assaulted  the  Confederate  defenses  of  the  place,  but  with 
out  success.  On  the  22nd  a  more  extensive  assault  was  made,  but 
it  also  failed,  and  it  was  then  evident  to  Grant  that  Vicksburg 
would  have  to  be  taken  by  a  siege.  To  do  this  he  would  need  strong 
reinforcements,  and  they  were  forthwith  sent  him  from  various 
quarters.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  we  went  also.  On  May  31st  we 
climbed  on  the  cars,  headed  for  Memphis,  and  steamed  away  from 
old  Bolivar — and  I  have  never  seen  the  place  since.  For  my  part, 
I  was  glad  to  leave.  We  had  been  outside  of  the  main  track  of  the 
war  for  several  months,  guarding  an  old  railroad,  while  the  bulk 
of  the  western  army  had  been  actively  engaged  in  the  stirring  and 
brilliant  campaign  against  Vicksburg,  and  we  were  all  becoming 
more  or  less  restless  and  dissatisfied.  From  my  standpoint,  one  of 
the  most  mortifying  things  that  can  happen  to  a  soldier  in  time 
of  war  is  for  his  regiment  to  be  left  somewhere  as  a  "guard,"  while 
his  comrades  of  the  main  army  are  in  the  field  of  active  operations, 
seeing  and  doing  "big  things,"  that  will  live  in  history.  But,  as 
before  remarked,  the  common  soldier  can  only  obey  orders,  and 
while  some  form  the  moving  column,  others  necessarily  have  sta 
tionary  duties.  But  at  last  the  old  61st  Illinois  was  on  the  wing,— 
and  the  Mississippi  Central  Railroad  could  "go  hang." 

The  regiment  at  this  time  was  part  of  Gen.  Nathan  KimbalPs 
division  of  the  16th  Corps,  and  the  entire  division  left  Tennessee 
to  reinforce  Grant  at  Vicksburg.  We  arrived  at  Memphis  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  same  day  we  left  Bolivar,  the  distance  between 
the  two  places  being  only  about  72  miles.  The  regiment  bivouacked 
that  night  on  a  sandbar  on  the  water  front  of  Memphis,  which  said 
bar  extended  from  the  water's  edge  back  to  a  high,  steep  sand- 


134  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

and-clay  bank.  And  that,  by  the  way,  is  the  only  night  I  have  ever 
spent  within  the  limits  of  the  city  of  Memphis.  While  we  were 
there  on  this  occasion,  I  witnessed  a  pathetic  incident,  which  is  yet 
as  fresh  and  vivid  in  my  memory  as  if  it  had  happened  only  yester 
day.  Soon  after  our  arrival  I  procured  a  pass  for  a  few  hours,  and 
took  a  stroll  through  the  city.  While  thus  engaged  I  met  two 
hospital  attendants  carrying  on  a  stretcher  a  wounded  Union  sol 
dier.  They  halted  as  I  approached,  and  rested  the  stretcher  on  the 
sidewalk.  An  old  man  was  with  them,  apparently  about  sixty 
years  old,  of  small  stature  and  slight  frame,  and  wearing  the  garb 
of  a  civilian.  I  stopped,  and  had  a  brief  conversation  with  one  of 
the  stretcher-bearers.  He  told  me  that  the  soldier  had  been  wound 
ed  in  one  of  the  recent  assaults  by  the  Union  troops  on  the  defenses 
of  Vicksburg,  and,  with  others  of  our  wounded,  had  just  arrived 
at  Memphis  on  a  hospital  boat.  That  the  old  gentleman  present 
was  the  father  of  the  wounded  boy,  and  having  learned  at  his  home 
in  some  northern  State  of  his  son  being  wounded,  had  started  to 
Vicksburg  to  care  for  him ;  that  the  boat  on  which  he  was  journey 
ing  had  rounded  in  at  the  Memphis  wharf  next  to  the  above  men 
tioned  hospital  boat,  and  that  he  happened  to  see  his  son  in  the  act 
of  being  carried  ashore,  and  thereupon  at  once  went  to  him,  and 
was  going  with  him  to  a  hospital  in  the  city.  But  the  boy  was 
dying,  and  that  was  the  cause  of  the  halt  made  by  the  stretcher- 
bearers.  The  soldier  was  quite  young,  seemingly  not  more  than 
eighteen  years  old.  He  had  an  orange,  which  his  father  had  given 
him,  tightly  gripped  in  his  right  hand,  which  was  lying  across  his 
breast.  But,  poor  boy!  it  was  manifest  that  that  orange  would 
never  be  tasted  by  him,  as  the  glaze  of  death  was  then  gathering 
on  his  eyes,  and  he  was  in  a  semi-unconscious  condition.  And  the 
poor  old  father  was  fluttering  around  the  stretcher,  in  an  aimless, 
distracted  manner,  wanting  to  do  something  to  help  his  boy — but 
the  time  had  come  when  nothing  could  be  done.  While  thus  oc 
cupied  I  heard  him  say  in  a  low,  broken  voice,  "He  is — the  only 
boy — I  have."  This  was  on  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  the  city, 
and  the  sidewalks  were  thronged  with  people,  soldiers  and  civilians, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  135 

rushing  to  and  fro  on  their  various  errands, — and  what  was  hap 
pening  at  this  stretcher  excited  no  attention  beyond  careless,  pass 
ing  glances.  A  common  soldier  was  dying, — that  was  all,  nothing 
but  "a  leaf  in  the  storm."  But  for  some  reason  or  other  the  inci 
dent  impressed  me  most  sadly  and  painfully.  I  didn't  wait  for  the 
end,  but  hurried  away, — tried  to  forget  the  scene,  but  couldn't. 

On  the  evening  of  June  1st  we  filed  on  board  the  big,  side- 
wheel  steamer  "Luminary,"  which  soon  cast  off  from  the  wharf, 
and  in  company  with  other  transports  crowded  with  soldiers,  went 
steaming  down  the  Mississippi.  Co.  D,  as  usual,  was  assigned  to  a 
place  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  the  boat.  After  we  had  stacked 
arms,  and  hung  our  belts  on  the  muzzles  of  the  guns,  I  hunted  up 
a  corner  on  the  forward  part  of  the  deck,  sat  down,  looked  at  the 
river  and  the  scenery  along  the  banks, — and  thought.  There  came 
vividly  to  my  mind  the  recollection  of  the  time,  about  fourteen 
months  previous,  when  we  started  out  from  St.  Louis,  down  the 
"Father  of  Waters,"  bound  for  the  "seat  of  war."  The  old  regi 
ment,  in  every  respect,  had  greatly  changed  since  that  time.  Then 
we  were  loud,  confident,  and  boastful.  Now  we  had  become  alto 
gether  more  quiet  and  grave  in  our  demeanor.  We  had  gradually 
realized  that  it  was  not  a  Sunday  school  picnic  excursion  we  were 
engaged  in,  but  a  desperate  and  bloody  war,  and  what  the  individual 
fate  of  each  of  us  might  be  before  it  was  over,  no  one  could  tell. 
There  is  nothing  which,  in  my  opinion,  will  so  soon  make  a  man 
out  of  a  boy  as  actual  service  in  time  of  war.  Our  faces  had  in 
sensibly  taken  on  a  stern  and  determined  look,  and  soldiers  who  a 
little  over  a  year  ago  were  mere  laughing,  foolish  boys,  were  now 
sober,  steady,  self-relying  men.  We  had  been  taking  lessons  in 
what  was,  in  many  important  respects,  the  best  school  in  the  world. 

Our  voyage  down  the  river  was  uneventful.  We  arrived  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Yazoo  river  on  the  evening  of  June  3rd.  There  our 
fleet  turned  square  to  the  left,  and  proceeded  up  that  stream.  Near 
the  mouth  of  the  Chickasaw  Bayou,  the  fleet  landed  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  stream,  the  boats  tied  up  for  the  night,  we  went  on  the  shore 
and  bivouacked  there  that  night.  It  was  quite  a  relief  to  get  on 


136  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

solid  ground,  and  where  we  could  stretch  our  legs  and  stroll  around 
a  little.  Next  morning  we  re-embarked  at  an  early  hour,  and  con 
tinued  up  the  Yazoo.  During  the  forenoon  we  learned  from  one  of 
the  boat's  crew  that  we  were  approaching  a  point  called  "Alligator 
Bend,"  and  if  we  would  be  on  the  lookout  we  would  see  some  alli 
gators.  None  of  us,  so  far  as  I  know,  had  ever  seen  any  of  those 
creatures,  and,  of  course,  we  were  all  agog  to  have  a  view  of  them. 
A  few  of  the  best  shots  obtained  permission  from  the  officers  to 
try  their  muskets  on  the  reptiles,  in  case  any  showed  up.  On  reach 
ing  the  bend  indicated,  there  were  the  alligators,  sure  enough, 
lazily  swimming  about,  and  splashing  in  the  water.  They  were 
sluggish,  ugly  looking  things,  and  apparently  from  six  to  eight  feet 
long.  Our  marksmen  opened  fire  at  once.  I  had  read  in  books  at 
home  that  the  skin  of  an  alligator  was  so  hard  and  tough  that  it 
was  impervious  to  an  ordinary  rifle  bullet.  That  may  have  been 
true  as  regards  the  round  balls  of  the  old  small-bore  rifle,  but  it 
was  not  the  case  with  the  conical  bullets  of  our  hard-hitting  mus 
kets.  The  boys  would  aim  at  a  point  just  behind  the  fore-shoulder, 
the  ball  would  strike  the  mark  with  a  loud  "whack,"  a  jet  of  blood 
would  spurt  high  in  the  air,  the  alligator  would  give  a  convulsive 
flounce, — and  disappear.  It  had  doubtless  got  its  medicine.  But 
this  "alligator  practice"  didn't  last  long.  Gen.  Kimball,  on  learn 
ing  the  cause,  sent  word  mighty  quick  from  the  headquarters  boat 
to  "Stop  that  firing!" — and  we  stopped. 

About  noon  on  the  4th  we  arrived  at  the  little  town  of  Satartia 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  Yazoo,  and  about  40  miles  above  its  mouth ; 
there  the  fleet  halted,  tied  up,  and  the  troops  debarked,  and  marched 
out  to  the  highlands  back  of  the  town.  We  were  now  in  a  region 
that  was  new  to  us,  and  we  soon  saw  several  novel  and  strange 
things.  There  was  a  remarkable  natural  growth,  called  "Spanish 
moss,"  that  was  very  plentiful,  and  a  most  fantastic  looking  thing. 
It  grew  on  nearly  all  the  trees,  was  of  a  grayish-white  color,  with 
long,  pendulous  stems.  The  lightest  puff  of  air  would  set  it  in  mo 
tion,  and  on  a  starlight  night,  or  when  the  moon  was  on  the  wane 
and  there  was  a  slight  breeze,  it  presented  a  most  ghostly  and  un- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  137 

canny  appearance.  And  the  woods  were  full  of  an  unusual  sort  of 
squirrels,  being  just  as  black  as  crows.  They  were  in  size,  as  I  now 
remember,  of  a  grade  intermediate  the  fox-  and  gray-squirrels  we 
had  at  home.  But  all  their  actions  and  habits  appeared  to  be  just 
the  same  as  those  of  their  northern  cousins.  And  there  was  a  most 
singular  bird  of  the  night  that  was  quite  numerous  here,  called  the 
"chuck-will's  widow,"  on  account  of  the  resemblance  its  note  bore 
to  those  words.  It  belonged  to  the  whippoorwill  family,  but  was 
some  larger.  It  would  sound  its  monotonous  call  in  the  night  for 
hours  at  a  stretch,  and  I  think  its  mournful  cry,  heard  when  alone, 
on  picket  at  night  out  in  dense,  gloomy  woods,  is  just  the  most 
lonesome,  depressing  strain  I  ever  heard. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  4th  all  our  force  advanced  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  little  town  of  Mechanicsburg,  which  lay  a  few  miles 
back  of  the  river.  Those  in  the  front  encountered  Confederate 
cavalry,  and  a  lively  little  skirmish  ensued,  in  which  our  regiment 
was  not  engaged.  Our  troops  burnt  Mechanicsburg,  and  captured 
about  forty  of  the  Confederates.  I  was  standing  by  the  side  of  the 
road  when  these  prisoners  were  being  taken  to  the  rear.  They 
were  all  young  chaps,  fine,  hearty  looking  fellows,  and  were  the  best 
looking  little  bunch  of  Confederates  I  saw  during  the  war.  Early 
in  the  morning  of  June  6th  we  fell  into  line  and  marched  southwest, 
in  the  direction  of  Vicksburg.  Our  route,  in  the  main,  was  down 
the  valley  of  the  Yazoo  river.  And  it  will  be  said  here  that  this 
was  the  hottest,  most  exhausting  march  I  was  on  during  my  entire 
service.  In  the  first  place,  the  weather  was  intensely  hot.  Then 
the  road  down  the  valley  on  which  we  marched  mostly  ran  through 
immense  fields  of  corn  higher  than  our  heads.  The  fields  next  the 
road  were  not  fenced,  and  the  corn  grew  close  to  the  beaten  track. 
Not  the  faintest  breeze  was  stirring,  and  the  hot,  stifling  dust  en 
veloped  us  like  a  blanket.  Every  now  and  then  we  would  pass  a 
soldier  lying  by  the  side  of  the  road,  overcome  by  the  heat  and  un 
conscious,  while  one  or  two  of  his  comrades  would  be  standing  by 
him,  bathing  his  face  and  chest  with -water,  and  trying  to  revive 
him.  I  put  green  hickory  leaves  in  my  cap,  and  kept  them  well 


138  THE  STORY  OF  AfCOMMON  SOLDIER. 

saturated  with  water  from  my  canteen.  The  leaves  would  retain 
the  moisture  and  keep  my  head  cool,  and  when  they  became  stale 
and  withered,  would  be  thrown  away,  and  fresh  ones  procured. 
Several  men  died  on  this  march  from  sun-stroke;  none,  however, 
from  our  regiment,  but  we  all  suffered  fearfully.  And  pure  drink 
ing  water  was  very  scarce  too.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  men  strug 
gling  for  water  at  the  farm  house  wells  we  occasionally  passed.  In 
their  frenzied  desperation  they  would  spill  much  more  than  they 
saved,  and  ere  long  would  have  the  well  drawn  dry.  But  one  re 
deeming  feature  about  this  march  was — we  were  not  hurried.  There 
were  frequent  halts,  to  give  the  men  time  to  breathe,  and  on  such 
occasions,  if  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  pool  of  stagnant 
swamp-water,  we  would  wash  the  dirt  and  dust  from  our  faces 
and  out  of  our  eyes. 

As  we  trudged  down  the  Yazoo  valley,  we  continued  to  see 
things  that  were  new  and  strange.  We  passed  by  fields  of  grow 
ing  rice,  and  I  saw  many  fig  trees,  loaded  with  fruit,  but  which 
was  yet  green.  And  in  the  yards  of  the  most  of  the  farm  houses 
was  a  profusion  of  domestic  flowers,  such  as  did  not  bloom  in  the 
north,  of  wonderful  color  and  beauty.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  second  day's  march,  I  happened  to  notice  by 
the  side  of  the  road  an  enormous  rattlesnake,  which  evidently  had 
been  killed  by  some  soldier  only  a  short  time  before  we  passed. 
It  seemingly  was  between  five  and  six  feet  long,  and  the  middle  of 
its  body  appeared  to  be  as  thick  as  a  man's  thigh.  Its  rattles  had 
been  removed,  presumably  as  a  trophy.  It  was  certainly  a  giant 
among  rattlesnakes,  and  doubtless  was  an  "old-timer." 

On  the  evening  of  June  7th,  about  sundown,  we  arrived  at 
Haines'  Bluff  on  the  Yazoo  river,  and  there  went  into  camp.  This 
point  was  about  twelve  miles  north  of  Vicksburg,  and  had  been 
strongly  fortified  by  the  Confederates,  but  Grant's  movements  had 
compelled  them  to  abandon  their  works  without  a  battle.  There 
had  been  a  large  number  of  the  Confederates  camped  there,  and  the 
ground  was  littered  with  the  trash  and  rubbish  that  accumulates 
in  quarters.  And  our  friends  in  gray  had  left  some  things  in  these 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  139 

old  camps  which  ere  long  we  all  fervently  wished  they  had  taken 
with  them,  namely,  a  most  plentiful  quantity  of  the  insect  known 
as  "Pediculus  vestimenti,"  which  forthwith  assailed  us  as  vo 
raciously  as  if  they  had  been  on  quarter  rations,  or  less,  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war. 

On  June  16th  we  left  Haines'  Bluff,  and  marched  about  two 
miles  down  the  Yazoo  river  to  Snyder's  Bluff,  where  we  went  into 
camp.  Our  duties  here,  as  they  had  been  at  Haines',  were  standing 
picket,  and  constructing  fortifications.  We  had  the  usual  dress 
parade" at  sunset,  but  the  drills  were  abandoned;  we  had  more  im 
portant  work  to  do.  General  Joe  Johnston,  the  Confederate  com 
mander  outside  of  Vicksburg,  was  at  Jackson,  Mississippi,  or  in 
that  immediate  vicinity,  and  was  collecting  a  force  to  move  on 
Grant's  rear,  in  order  to  compel  him  to  raise  the  siege.  Grant 
thought  that  if  Johnston  attacked,  it  would  be  from  the  northeast, 
so  he  established  a  line  of  defense  extending  southeast,  from 
Haines'  Bluff  on  the  north  to  Black  river  on  the  south,  and  placed 
Gen.  Sherman  in  command  of  this  line.  As  Grant  has  said  some 
where  in  his  Memoirs,  the  country  in  this  part  of  Mississippi 
"stands  on  edge."  That  is  to  say,  it  consists  largely  of  a  succes 
sion  of  high  ridges  with  sharp,  narrow  summits.  Along  this  line 
of  defense,  the  general  course  of  these  ridges  was  such  that  they 
were  admirably  adapted  for  defensive  purposes.  We  went  to  work 
on  the  ridges  with  spades  and  mattocks,  and  constructed  the  strong 
est  field  fortifications  that  I  ever  saw  during  the  war.  We  dug 
away  the  crests,  throwing  the  dirt  to  the  front,  and  made  long 
lines  of  breastworks  along  our  entire  front,  facing,  of  course,  the 
northeast.  Then,  at  various  places,  on  commanding  points,  were 
erected  strong  redoubts  for  artillery,  floored,  and  revetted  on  the 
inner  walls  with  thick  and  strong  green  lumber  and  timbers.  On 
the  exterior  slopes  of  the  ridges  were  dug  three  lines  of  trenches, 
or  rifle  pits,  extending  in  a  parallel  form  from  near  the  base  of  the 
ridges  almost  to  the  summit,  with  intervals  between  the  lines.  All 
the  trees  and  bushes  in  our  front  on  the  slopes  of  the  ridges  were 
cut  down,  with  their  tops  outwards,  thus  forming  a  tangled  abattis 


140  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

which  looked  as  if  a  rabbit  could  hardly  get  through.  And 
finally,  on  the  inner  slope  of  the  ridges,  a  little  below  their  sum 
mits,  was  constructed  a  "covered  way;"  that  is,  a  road  dug  along 
the  sides  of  the  ridges,  and  over  which  an  army,  with  batteries  of 
artillery,  could  have  marched  with  perfect  safety.  The  purpose  of 
these  covered  ways  was  to  have  a  safe  and  sheltered  road  right 
along  our  rear  by  which  any  position  on  the  line  could  be  promptly 
reinforced,  if  necessary. 

Sometimes  I  would  walk  along  the  parapet  of  our  works,  look 
ing  off  to  the  northeast  where  the  Confederates  were  supposed  to 
be,  and  I  ardently  wished  that  they  would  attack  us.  Our  defenses 
were  so  strong  that  in  my  opinion  it  would  have  been  a  physical  im 
possibility  for  flesh  and  blood  to  have  carried  them.  Had  Johnston 
tried,  he  simply  would  have  sacrificed  thousands  of  his  men  with 
out  accomplishing  anything  to  his  own  advantage. 

It  will  be  said  here  that  I  have  no  recollection  of  having  per 
sonally  taken  part  in  the  construction  of  the  fortifications  above 
mentioned.  In  fact,  I  never  did  an  hour's  work  in  the  trenches, 
with  spade  and  mattock,  during  all  my  time.  I  never  "took" 
willingly  to  that  kind  of  soldiering.  But  there  were  plenty  of  the 
boys  who  preferred  it  to  standing  picket,  because  when  on  fatigue 
duty,  as  it  was  called,  they  would  quit  about  sundown,  and  then  get 
an  unbroken  night's  sleep.  So,  when  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  be  detailed 
for  fatigue,  I  would  swap  with  someone  who  had  been  assigned  to 
picket, — he  would  do  my  duty,  and  I  would  perform  his;  we  were 
both  satisfied,  and  the  fair  inference  is  that  no  harm  was  thereby 
done  to  the  cause.  And  it  was  intensely  interesting  to  me,  when 
on  picket  at  night  on  the  crest  of  some  high  ridge,  to  stand  and 
listen  to  the  roar  of  our  cannon  pounding  at  Vicksburg,  and  watch 
the  flight  of  the  shells  from  Grant's  siege  guns  and  from  the  heavy 
guns  of  our  gunboats  on  the  Mississippi.  The  shells  they  threw 
seemed  principally  to  be  of  the  "fuse"  variety,  and  the  burning 
fuse,  as  the  shell  flew  through  the  air,  left  a  stream  of  bright  red 
light  behind  it  like  a  rocket.  I  would  lean  on  my  gun  and  contem 
plate  the  spectacle  with  far  more  complacency  and  satisfaction 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  141 

than  was  felt  when  anxiously  watching  the  practice  on  us  by  the 
other  fellows  at  Salem  Cemetery  about  six  months  before. 

There  was  another  thing  I  was  wont  to  observe  with  peculiar 
attention,  when  on  picket  at  night  during  the  siege;  namely,  the 
operations  of  the  Signal  Corps.  In  the  night  time  they  used  lighted 
lanterns  in  the  transmission  of  intelligence,  and  they  had  a  code 
by  which  the  signals  could  be  read  with  practically  the  same  ac 
curacy  as  if  they  had  been  printed  words.  The  movements  of  the 
lights  looked  curious  and  strange,  something  elf-like,  with  a  sus 
picion  of  witchcraft,  or  deviltry  of  some  kind,  about  them.  They 
would  make  all  sorts  of  gyrations,  up,  down,  a  circle,  a  half  circle 
to  the  right,  then  one  to  the  left,  and  so  on.  Sometimes  they  would 
be  unusually  active.  Haines'  Bluff  would  talk  to  Snyder's ;  Snyder's 
to  Sherman's  headquarters;  Sherman's  to  Grant's,  and  back  and 
forth,  all  along  the  line.  Occasionally  at  some  station  the  lights 
would  act  almost  like  some  nervous  man  talking  at  his  highest 
speed  in  a  perfect  splutter  of  excitement, — and  then  they  would 
seem  as  if  drunk,  or  crazy.  Of  course,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  code 
of  interpretation,  and  so  understood  nothing, — could  only  look  and 
speculate.  In  modern  warfare  the  telephone  has  probably  super 
seded  the  Signal  Service,  but  the  latter  certainly  played  an  im 
portant  part  in  our  Civil  War. 

During  the  siege  we  lived  high  on  some  comestibles  not  in 
cluded  in  the  regular  army  rations.  Corn  was  in  the  roasting  ear 
state,  and  there  were  plenty  of  big  fields  of  it  beyond  and  near  the 
picket  lines,  and  we  helped  ourselves  liberally.  Our  favorite  meth 
od  of  cooking  the  corn  was  to  roast  it  in  the  "shuck."  We  would 
"snap"  the  ears  from  the  stalk,  leaving  the  shuck  intact,  daub  over 
the  outside  a  thin  plaster  of  mud  (or  sometimes  just  saturate  the 
ears  in  water),  then  cover  them  with  hot  ashes  and  live  coals.  By 
the  time  the  fire  had  consumed  the  shuck  down  to  the  last  or  in 
ner  layer,  the  corn  was  done,  and  it  made  most  delicious  eating. 
We  had  no  butter  to  spread  on  it,  but  it  was  good  enough  without. 
And  then  the  blackberries!  I  have  never  seen  them  so  numerous 
and  so  large  as  they  were  there  on  those  ridges  in  the  rear  of 


142  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

Vicksburg.  I  liked  them  best  raw,  taken  right  from  the  vine,  but 
sometimes,  for  a  change,  would  stew  them  in  my  coffee  can,  adding 
a  little  sugar,  and  prepared  in  this  manner  they  were  fine.  But, 
like  the  darkey's  rabbit, — they  were  good  any  way.  The  only 
serious  drawback  that  we  had  on  our  part  of  the  line  was  the  un 
usual  amount  of  fatal  sickness  that  prevailed  among  the  men.  The 
principal  types  of  disease  were  caimp  diarrhea  and  malarial  fevers, 
resulting,  in  all  probability,  largely  from  the  impure  water  we 
drank.  At  first  we  procured  water  from  shallow  and  improvised 
wells  that  we  dug  in  the  hollows  and  ravines.  Wild  cane  grew 
luxuriantly  in  this  locality,  attaining  a  height  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet,  and  all  other  wild  vegetation  was  rank  in  proportion.  The 
annual  growth  of  all  this  plant  life  had  been  dying  and  rotting  on 
the  ground  for  ages,  and  the  water  would  filter  through  this  de 
composing  mass,  and  become  well-nigh  poisonous.  An  order  was 
soon  issued  that  we  should  get  all  water  for  drinking  and  cooking 
purposes  from  the  Yazoo  river,  and  boil  it  before  using,  but  it  was 
impossible  to  compel  complete  obedience  to  such  an  order.  When 
men  got  thirsty,  they  would  drink  whatever  was  handy, — orders 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  And  the  water  of  the  river  was 
about  as  bad  as  the  swamp  water.  I  have  read  somewhere  that 
"Yazoo"  is  an  Indian  word,  signifying  "The  River  of  Death,"  and 
if  so,  it  surely  was  correctly  named.  It  is  just  my  opinion,  as  a 
common  soldier,  that  the  epidemic  of  camp  diarrhea  could  have 
been  substantially  prevented  if  all  the  men  had  eaten  freely  of 
blackberries.  I  didn't  have  a  touch  of  that  disorder  during  all  the 
time  we  were  in  that  locality,  and  I  attribute  my  immunity  to  the 
fact  that  I  ate  liberally  of  blackberries  about  every  day.  But  camp 
diarrhea  is  something  that  gets  in  its  work  quick,  and  after  the 
men  got  down  with  it,  they  possibly  had  no  chance  to  get  the 
berries.  And  all  the  time  we  were  at  Snyder,  nearly  every  hour 
of  the  day,  could  be  heard  the  doleful,  mournful  notes  of  the  "Dead 
March,"  played  by  the  military  bands,  as  some  poor  fellow  was 
being  taken  to  his  long  home.  It  seemed  to  me  at  the  time,  and 
seems  so  yet,  that  they  should  have  left  out  that  piece  of  music. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  143 

It  did  no  good,  and  its  effect  was  very  depressing,  especially  on  the 
sick.  Under  such  circumstances,  it  would  seem  that  common  sense, 
if  exercised,  would  have  dictated  the  keeping  dumb  of  such  sadden 
ing  funeret  strains, 

Sometime  during  the  latter  part  of  June  the  regiment  was 
paid  two  months'  pay  by  Major  C.  L.  Bernay,  a  Paymaster  of  the 
U.  S.  Army.  He  was  a  fine  old  German,  of  remarkably  kind  and 
benevolent  appearance,  and  looked  more  like  a  venerable  Catholic 
priest  than  a  military  man.  After  he  had  paid  off  the  regiment, 
his  escort  loaded  his  money  chest  and  his  personal  stuff  into  an 
ambulance,  and  he  was  soon  ready  to  go  to  some  other  regiment. 
Several  of  our  officers  had  assembled  to  bid  him  good-by,  and  I 
happened  to  be  passing  along,  and  witnessed  what  transpired.  The 
few  farewell  remarks  of  the  old  iman  were  punctuated  by  the  roar 
of  the  big  guns  of  our  army  and  navy  pounding  away  at  Vicksburg, 
and  the  incident  impressed  me  as  somewhat  pathetic.  "Goot-by, 
Colonel,"  said  Major  Bernay,  extending  his  hand;  (Boom!)  "Goot- 
by  Major;"  (Boom!)  "Goot-by,  Captain;"  (Boom!)  and  so  on,  to 
the  others.  Then,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  all  the  little  group, 
"Goot>-by,  shentlemens,  all."  (Boom!)  Maybe  so  (Boom!)  we 
meet  not  again."  (Boom,  boom,  boom!)  It  was  quite  apparent 
that  he  was  thinking  of  the  so-called  "fortunes  of  war."  Then  he 
sprang  into  his  ambulance,  and  drove  away.  His  prediction  proved 
true — we  never  met  again. 

The  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July  opened  serene  and  peace 
ful,  more  so,  in  fact,  than  in  old  times  at  home,  for  with  us  not 
even  the  popping  of  a  fire-cracker  was  heard.  And  the  stillness 
south  of  us  continued  as  the  day  wore  on, — the  big  guns  of  the 
army  and  navy  remained  absolutely  quiet.  Our  first  thought  was 
that  because  the  day  was  a  national  holiday,  Grant  had  ordered  a 
cessation  of  the  firing  in  order  to  give  his  soldiers  a  day  of  needed 
rest.  It  was  not  until  some  time  in  the  afternoon  that  a  rumor 
began  to  circulate  among  the  common  soldiers  that  Vicksburg  had 
surrendered,  and  about  sundown  we  learned  that  such  was  the  fact. 
So  far  as  I  saw  or  heard,  we  indulged  in  no  whooping  or  yelling 


144  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

over  the  event.  We  had  been  confident,  all  the  time,  that  the  thing 
would  finally  happen,  so  we  were  not  taken  by  surprise.  There 
was  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  and  relief  that  the  end  had  come,  but 
we  took  it  coolly  and  as  a  matter  of  course. 

On  the  same  day  that  Vicksburg  surrendered  Grant  started 
the  greater  part  of  his  army,  under  the  command  of  Gen.  Sherman, 
in  the  direction  of  Jackson  for  the  purpose  of  attacking  Gen.  John 
ston.  Our  division,  however,  remained  at  Snyder's  until  July  12th, 
when  we  left  there,  marching  southeast.  I  remember  this  march 
especially,  from  the  fact  that  the  greater  part  of  it  was  made  dur 
ing  the  night.  This  was  done  in  order  to  avoid  the  excessive 
heat  that  prevailed  in  the  daytime.  As  we  plodded  along  after  sun 
set,  at  route  step,  and  arms  at  will,  a  low  hum  of  conversation 
could  be  heard,  and  occasionally  a  loud  laugh,  "that  spoke  the  vacant 
mind."  By  ten  o'clock  we  were  tired  (we  had  been  on  the  road 
since  noon),  and  moreover,  getting  very  sleepy.  Profound  silence 
now  prevailed  in  the  ranks,  broken  only  by  the  rattle  of  canteens 
against  the  shanks  of  the  bayonets,  and  the  heavy,  monotonous 
tramp  of  the  men.  As  Walter  Scott  has  said  somewhere  in  one  of 
his  poetical  works: 

"No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 
Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum ; 
Save  heavy  tread  and  armor's  clang, 
The  sullen  march  was  dumb." 

The  column  halted  about  midnight,  we  bivouacked  in  the 
woods  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  I  was  asleep  about  as  soon  as 
I  struck  the  ground. 

We  resumed  the  march  early  in  the  morning,  and  during  the 
forenoon  arrived  at  Messinger's  ford,  on  Black  river,  where  we 
went  into  camp.  We  remained  here  only  until  July  17,  and  on  that 
day  marched  a  few  miles  south  to  the  railroad  crossing  on  Black 
river,  and  bivouacked  on  the  west  bank  of  the  stream.  The  Con 
federates  during  the  campaign  had  thrown  up  breastworks  of  cot 
ton  bales,  which  evidently  had  extended  for  quite  a  distance  above 
and  below  the  railroad  crossing.  When  our  fellows  came  along 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  145 

they  tore  open  the  bales  and  used  the  cotton  to  sleep  on,  and  when 
we  arrived  at  the  place  the  fleecy  stuff  was  scattered  over  the 
ground,  in  some  places  half -knee  deep,  all  over  that  portion  of  the 
river  bottom.  It  looked  like  a  big  snowfall.  Cotton,  at  that  very 
time,  was  worth  one  dollar  a  pound  in  the  New  York  market,  and 
scarce  at  that.  A  big  fortune  was  there  in  the  dirt,  going  to  waste, 
but  we  were  not  in  the  cotton  business  just  then,  so  it  made  no 
difference  to  us.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war,  it  was  confidently 
asserted  by  the  advocates  of  the  secession  movement  that  ''Cotton 
was  king;"  that  the  civiFzed  world  couldn't  do  without  it,  and  as 
the  South  had  a  virtual  monopoly  of  the  stuff,  the  need  of  it  would 
compel  the  European  nations  to  recognize  the  independence  of  the 
Southern  Confederacy,  and  which  would  thereby  result  in  the 
speedy  and  complete  triumph  of  the  Confederate  cause.  But  in 
thus  reasoning  they  ignored  a  law  of  human  nature.  Men,  under 
the  pressure  of  necessity,  can  get  along  without  many  things  which 
they  have  previously  regarded  as  indispensable.  At  this  day,  in 
my  opinion,  many  of  the  alleged  wants  of  mankind  are  purely  arti 
ficial,  and  we  would  be  better  off  if  they  were  cut  out  altogether. 
Aside  from  various  matters  of  food  and  drink  and  absurdities  in 
garb  and  ornaments,  numbers  of  our  rich  women  in  eastern  cities 
regard  life  as  a  failure  unless  they  each  possess  a  thousand  dollar 
pet  dog,  decorated  with  ribbons  and  diamond  ornaments  and  hon 
ored  at  dog-functions  with  a  seat  at  the  table,  where,  on  such  oc 
casions,  pictures  of  the  dogs,  with  their  female  owners  sitting  by 
them,  are  taken  and  reproduced  in  quarter-page  cuts  in  the  Sunday 
editions  of  the  daily  papers.  If  these  women  would  knock  the  dogs 
in  the  head  and  bring  into  the  world  legitimate  babies,  (or  even 
illegitimate,  for  their  husbands  are  probably  of  the  capon  breed,) 
then  they  might  be  of  some  use  to  the  human  race ;  as  it  is  they  are 
a  worthless,  unnatural  burlesque  on  the  species.  But  this  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  war,  or  the  61st  Illinois,  so  I  will  pass  on. 

While  we  were  at  the  Black  river  railroad  bridge  thousands 
of  paroled  Confederate  soldiers  captured  at  Vicksburg  passed  us, 
walking  on  the  railroad  track,  going  eastward.  We  had  strict  or- 


146  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

ders  to  abstain  from  making  to  them  any  insulting  or  taunting  re 
marks,  and  so  far  as  I  saw,  these  orders  were  faithfuUy  obeyed. 
The  Confederates  looked  hard.  They  were  ragged,  sallow,  emaci 
ated,  and  seemed  depressed  and  disconsolate.  They  went  by  us 
with  downcast  looks  and  in  silence.  I  heard  only  one  of  them  make 
any  remark  whatever,  and  he  was  a  little  drummer  boy,  apparently 
not  more  than  fifteen  years  old.  He  tried  to  say  something  funny, 
—but  it  was  a  dismal  failure. 

While  in  camp  at  the  railroad  crossing  on  Black  river,  a  most 
agreeable  incident  occurred,  the  pleasure  of  which  has  not  been 
lessened  by  the  flight  of  time,  but  rather  augmented.  But  to  com 
prehend  it  fully,  some  preliminary  explanation  might  be  advisable. 
Before  the  war  there  lived  a  few  miles  from  our  home,  near  the 
Jersey  Landing  settlement,  a  quaint  and  most  interesting  char 
acter,  of  the  name  of  Benjamin  F.  Slaten.  He  owned  and  lived  on 
a  farm,  but  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  practiced  law  to 
some  extent,  as  a  sort  of  a  side-line.  But  I  think  that  until  after 
the  war  his  practice,  in  the  main,  was  confined  to  the  courts  of  jus 
tices  of  the  peace.  He  was  a  shrewd,  sensible  old  man,  of  a  remark 
ably  kind  and  genial  disposition,  but  just  about  the  homeliest  look 
ing  individual  I  ever  saw.  And  he  had  a  most  singular,  squeaky 
sort  of  a  voice,  with  a  kind  of  a  nasal  twang  to  it,  which  if  heard 
once  could  never  be  forgotten.  He  was  an  old  friend  of  my  father's, 
and  had  been  his  legal  adviser  (so  far  as  his  few  and  trifling  neces 
sities  in  that  line  required)  from  time  immemorial.  And  for  a 
year  or  so  prior  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war  my  thoughts  had  been 
running  much  on  the  science  of  law,  and  I  had  a  strong  desire,  if  the 
thing  could  be  accomplished,  to  sometime  be  a  lawyer  myself.  So, 
during  the  period  aforesaid,  whenever  I  would  meet  "Uncle  Ben" 
(as  we  frequently  called  him),  I  would  have  a  lot  of  questions  to 
fire  at  him  about  some  law  points,  which  it  always  seemed  to  give 
him  much  pleasure  to  answer.  I  remember  yet  one  statement  he 
made  to  me  that  later,  (and  sometimes  to  my  great  chagrin,)  I 
found  out  was  undeniably  true.  "Leander,"  said  he,  "if  ever  you 
get  into  the  practice  of  law,  you'll  find  that  it  is  just  plum  full  of 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  147 

little  in-trick-ate  pints."  (But  things  are  not  as  bad  now  in  that 
respect  as  they  were  then.)  The  war  ensued,  and  in  September, 
1862,  he  entered  the  service  as  Captain  of  Co.  K  of  the  97th  Illinois 
Infantry.  He  was  about  forty-two  years  old  at  this  time.  In  due 
course  of  events  the  regiment  was  sent  south,  and  became  a  part 
of  the  Army  ol  the  Tennessee,  but  the  paths  of  the  61st  and  the 
97th  were  on  different  lines,  and  I  never  met  Capt.  Slaten  in  the 
field  until  the  happening  of  the  incident  now  to  be  mentioned. 

When  we  were  at  Black  river  I  was  on  picket  one  night  about 
a  mile  or  so  from  camp,  at  a  point  on  an  old  country  road.  Some 
time  shortly  after  midnight,  while  I  was  curled  up  asleep  in  a 
corner  of  the  old  worm  fence  by  the  side  of  the  road,  I  was  sud 
denly  awakened  by  an  energetic  shake,  accompanied  by  the  loud 
calling  of  my  name.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  at  once,  thinking  maybe 
some  trouble  was  afoot,  and,  to  my  surprise,  saw  Capt.  Keeley 
standing  in  front  of  me,  with  some  other  gentleman.  "Stillwell," 
said  Keeley,  "here's  an  old  friend  of  yours.  He  wanted  to  see  you, 
and  being  pressed  for  time,  his  only  chance  for  a  little  visit  was  to 
come  to  you  on  the  picket  line."  My  caller  stood  still,  and  said 
nothing.  I  saw  that  he  was  an  officer,  for  his  shoulder  straps  were 
plainly  visible,  but  I  could  not  be  sure  of  his  rank,  for  there  was 
no  moon,  and  the  night  was  dark.  He  was  wearing  an  old  "sugar- 
loaf"  hat,  seemingly  much  decayed,  his  blouse  was  covered  with 
dust,  and,  in  general,  he  looked  tough.  His  face  was  covered  with 
a  thick,  scraggy  beard,  and  under  all  these  circumstances  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  recognize  him.  I  was  very  anxious  to  do  so, 
in  view  of  the  trouble  the  officer  had  taken  to  come  away  out  on 
the  picket  line,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  see  me,  but  I  just 
couldn't,  and  began  to  stammer  a  sort  of  apology  about  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night  hindering  a  prompt  recognition,  when  the  "un 
known"  gave  his  head  a  slant  to  one  side,  and,  in  his  never  for- 
getable  voice,  spoke  thus  to  Keeley:  "I  told  you  he  wouldn't  know 
me."  "I  know  you  now,"  said  I;  "I'd  recognize  that  voice  if  I  heard 
it  in  Richmond!  This  is  Capt.  Ben  Slaten,  of  the  97th  Illinois;" 
and  springing  forward  I  seized  his  right  hand  with  both  of  mine, 


148  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

while  he  threw  his  left  arm  about  my  neck  and  fairly  hugged  me. 
It  soon  came  out  in  the  conversation  that  ensued  that  his  regiment 
had  been  with  Sherman  in  the  recent  move  on  Jackson ;  that  it  was 
now  returning  with  that  army  to  the  vicinity  of  Vicksburg,  and 
had  arrived  at  Black  river  that  night;  that  he  had  at  once  hunted 
up  the  61st  Illinois  to  have  a  visit  with  me,  and  ascertaining  that 
I  was  on  picket,  had  persuaded  Capt.  Keeley  to  come  with  him  to 
the  picket  line,  as  his  regiment  would  leave  early  in  the  morning 
on  the  march,  hence  this  would  be  his  only  opportunity  for  a  brief 
meeting.  And  we  all  certainly  had  a  most  delightful  visit  with  the 
old  Captain.  From  the  time  of  his  arrival  until  his  departure  there 
was  no  sleeping,  by  anybody,  on  that  picket  post.  We  sat  on  the 
ground  in  a  little  circ!e  around  him,  and  listened  to  his  comical  and 
side-splitting  stories  of  army  life,  and  incidents  in  camp  and  field 
generally.  He  was  an  inimitable  story  teller,  and  his  peculiar  tone 
and  manner  added  immensely  to  the  comicality  of  his  anecdotes. 
And  somehow  he  had  the  happy  faculty  of  extracting  something 
humorous,  or  absurd,  from  what  the  generality  of  men  would  have 
regarded  as  a  very  serious  affair.  He  did  the  most  of  the  talking 
that  night,  while  the  rest  of  us  sat  there  and  fairly  screamed  with 
laughter.  It  was  well  known  and  understood  that  there  were  no 
armed  Confederates  in  our  vicinity,  so  we  ran  no  risk  in  being  a 
little  careless.  Finally,  when  the  owls  began  tuning  up  for  day, 
the  old  Captain  bade  us  good-by,  and  trudged  away,  accompanied  by 
Capt.  Keeley. 

To  fully  comprehend  this  little  episode,  it  is,  perhaps,  neces 
sary  to  have  some  understanding  and  appreciation  of  how  a  soldier 
away  down  south,  far  from  home  and  the  friends  he  had  left  be 
hind,  enjoyed  meeting  some  dear  old  friend  of  the  loved  neighbor 
hood  of  home.  It  was  almost  equal  to  having  a  short  furlough. 

I  never  again  met  Capt.  Slaten  during  the  war.  He  came  out 
of  it  alive,  with  an  excellent  record, — and  about  thirty-seven  years 
after  the  close  died  at  his  old  home  in  Jersey  county,  Illinois,  sin 
cerely  regretted  and  mourned  by  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances  and 
friends. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  149 


CHAPTER  XI. 


HELENA,  ARKANSAS.— LIFE  IN  A  HOSPITAL.— 
AUGUST,  1863. 

General  Sherman  soon  drove  General  Johnston  out  of  Jackson, 
and  beyond  Pearl  river,  and  then  his  column  returned  to  the  vicinity 
of  Vicksburg.  On  July  22nd  our  division  marched  back  to  Snyder's 
Bluff,  and  resumed  our  old  camp.  But  we  had  not  been  here  long 
before  it  was  rumored  that  we  were  under  marching  orders,  and 
would  soon  leave  for  some  point  in  Arkansas.  Sure  enough,  on 
July  29th  we  marched  to  the  Yazoo  river  and  filed  on  board  the 
side-wheel  steamer  "Sultana,"  steamed  down  the  river  to  its  mouth, 
and  there  turned  up  the  Mississippi,  headed  north.  I  will  remark 
here  that  one  of  the  most  tragical  and  distressing  incidents  of  the 
war  was  directly  connected  with  a  frightful  disaster  that  later  be 
fell  the  above  named  steamboat.  It  left  Vicksburg  for  the  north 
on  or  about  April  25,  1865,  having  on  board  nearly  1900  Union 
soldiers,  all  of  whom  (with  few  exceptions)  were  paroled  pris 
oners.  On  the  morning  of  April  27th,  while  near  Memphis,  the 
boilers  of  the  boat  exploded,  and  it  was  burnt  to  the  water's  edge. 
Over  1100  of  these  unfortunate  men  perished  in  the  wreck,  in  dif 
ferent  ways;  some  scalded  to  death  by  escaping  steam,  some  by 
fire,  others  (and  the  greatest  number)  by  drowning.  Besides  the 
soldiers,  cabin  passengers  and  members  of  the  boat's  crew,  to  the 
number  of  about  140,  also  perished.  It  was  the  greatest  disaster, 
of  that  kind,  that  ever  occurred  on  the  Mississippi. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  noticed  that  the  regiment  is  leaving  the 
vicinity  of  Vicksburg  without  my  saying  a  word  about  the  appear 
ance,  at  that  time,  of  that  celebrated  stronghold.  There  is  good 
reason  for  it;  namely,  it  so  happened  that  we  never  were  in  the 
place.  We  were  close  to  it,  on  the  north  and  on  the  east,  but  that 


150  THE  STORY  OF   A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

was  all.    And  I  never  yet  have  seen  Vicksburg,  and  it  is  not  prob 
able  now  that  I  ever  shall. 

We  arrived  at  Helena,  Arkansas,  on  July  31st,  debarked  and 
went  into  camp  near  the  bank  of  the  river,  about  two  miles  below 
the  town.  There  were  no  trees  in  our  camp  except  a  few  cotton- 
woods;  the  ground  on  which  we  walked,  sat,  and  slept  was,  in  the 
main,  just  a  mass  of  hot  sand,  and  we  got  water  for  drinking  and 
cooking  purposes  from  the  Mississippi  river.  The  country  back 
of  the  town,  and  in  that  immediate  vicinity  generally,  was  wild  and 
thinly  settled,  and  had  already  been  well-foraged,  so  we  were  re 
stricted  to  the  ordinary  army  diet,  of  which  one  of  the  principal 
items,  as  usual,  was  fat  sow-belly.  I  never  understood  why  we 
were  not  allowed  to  camp  in  the  woods  west  of  the  town.  There 
was  plenty  of  high,  well-shaded  space  there,  and  we  soon  could 
have  sunk  wells  that  would  have  furnished  cool,  palatable  water. 
But  this  was  not  done,  and  the  regiment  remained  for  about  two 
weeks  camped  on  the  river  bank,  in  the  conditions  above  described. 
A  natural  result  was  that  numbers  of  the  men  were  prostrated  by 
malarial  fever,  and  this  time  I  happened  to  be  one  of  them.  I  now 
approach  a  painful  period  of  my  army  career.  I  just  lay  there, 
in  a  hot  tent,  on  the  sand, — oh,  so  sick !  But  I  fought  off  going  to 
the  hospital  as  long  as  possible.  I  had  a  superstitious  dread  of  an 
army  hospital.  I  had  seen  so  many  of  the  boys  loaded  into  am 
bulances,  and  hauled  off  to  such  a  place,  who  never  returned,  that 
I  was  determined  never  to  go  to  one  if  it  could  be  avoided  in  any 
honorable  way.  But  the  time  came  when  it  was  a  military  neces 
sity  that  I  should  go,  and  there  was  no  alternative.  The  campaign 
that  was  in  contemplation  was  a  movement  westward  against  the 
Confederates  under  Gen.  Sterling  Price  at  Little  Rock,  with  the 
intention  of  capturing  that  place  and  driving  the  Confederates 
from  the  State.  The  officer  in  command  of  the  Union  forces  was 
Gen.  Frederick  Steele.  Marching  orders  were  issued,  fixing  the 
13th  of  August  as  the  day  our  regiment  would  start.  All  the  sick 
who  were  unable  to  march  (and  I  was  among  that  number)  were 
to  be  sent  to  the  Division  Hospital.  So,  on  the  morning  before  the 


THE   STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER,  151 

regiment  moved,  an  ambulance  drove  up  to  my  tent,  and  some  of 
the  boys  carried  me  out  and  put  me  in  the  vehicle.  Capt.  Keeley 
was  standing  by ;  he  pressed  my  hand  and  said,  "Good-by,  Stillwell ; 
brace  up!  You'll  be  all  right  soon."  I  was  feeling  too  wretched  to 
talk  much ;  I  only  said,  "Good-by,  Captain,"  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
Later,  when  I  rejoined  the  regiment,  Keeley  told  me  that  when  he 
bade  me  good-by  that  morning  he  never  expected  to  see  me  again. 
Our  Division  Hospital,  to  which  I  was  taken,  consisted  of  a 
little  village  of  wall  tents  in  the  outskirts  of  Helena.  The  tents 
were  arranged  in  rows,  with  perhaps  from  fifteen  to  twenty  in  a 
row,  with  their  ends  pinned  back  against  the  sides,  thus  making 
an  open  space  down  an  entire  row.  The  sick  men  lay  on  cots,  of 
which  there  was  a  line  on  each  side  of  the  interior  of  the  tents, 
with  a  narrow  aisle  between.  I  remained  at  the  hospital  eight  days, 
and  was  very  sick  the  most  of  the  time,  and  retain  a  distinct  recol 
lection  of  only  a  few  things.  But,  aside  from  men  dying  all  around 
me,  both  day  and  night,  nothing  important  happened.  All  the  ac 
counts  that  I  have  read  of  this  movement  of  Gen.  Steele's  on  Little 
Rock  agree  in  stating  that  the  number  of  men  he  left  sick  at 
Helena  and  other  places  between  there  and  Little  Rock  was  ex 
traordinary  and  beyond  all  usual  proportions.  And  from  what  I 
saw  myself,  I  think  these  statements  must  be  true.  And  a  necessary 
consequence  of  this  heavy  sick  list  was  the  fact  that  it  must  have 
been  impossible  to  give  the  invalids  the  care  and  attention  they 
should  have  received.  We  had  but  few  attendants,  and  they  were 
soldiers  detailed  for  that  purpose  who  were  too  feeble  to  march, 
but  were  supposed  to  be  capable  of  rendering  hospital  service.  And 
the  medical  force  left  with  us  was  so  scanty  that  it  was  totally  in 
adequate  for  the  duties  they  were  called  on  to  perform.  Oh,  those 
nights  were  so  long!  At  intervals  in  the  aisle  a  bayonet  would  be 
stuck  in  the  ground  with  a  lighted  candle  in  its  socket,  and  when  a 
light  went  out,  say  after  midnight,  it  stayed  out,  and  we  would  toss 
around  on  those  hard  cots  in  a  state  of  semi-darkness  until  day 
light.  If  any  attendants  moved  around  among  us  in  the  later  hours 
of  the  night  I  never  saw  them.  We  had  well-water  to  drink,  which. 


152  THE  STORY  OF  A  OCMMON  SOLDIER. 

of  course,  was  better  than  that  from  the  river,  but  it  would  soon 
become  insipid  and  warm,  and  sometimes,  especially  during  the 
night,  we  didn't  have  enough  of  that.  On  one  occasion,  about  mid 
night,  soon  after  I  was  taken  to  the  hospital,  I  was  burning  with 
fever,  and  became  intolerably  thirsty  for  a  drink  of  water.  No  at 
tendants  were  in  sight,  and  the  candles  had  all  gone  out  but  one 
or  two,  which  emitted  only  a  sort  of  flickering  light  that  barely 
served  to  "render  darkness  visible."  My  suffering  became  well- 
nigh  unendurable,  and  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I  got  up  and 
staggered  to  the  door  of  the  tent  and  looking  about  me  saw  not  far 
away  a  light  gleaming  through  a  tent  that  stood  apart  from  the 
others.  I  made  my  way  to  it  as  best  I  could,  and  went  in.  A  young 
fellow,  maybe  an  assistant  surgeon,  was  seated  at  the  further  end 
of  a  little  desk,  writing.  My  entrance  was  so  quiet  that  he  did  not 
hear  me,  and  walking  up  to  him,  I  said,  in  a  sort  of  a  hollow  voice: 
"I  want — a  drink — of  water."  The  fellow  dropped  his  pen,  and 
nearly  fell  off  his  stool.  The  only  garment  I  had  on  was  a  white, 
sleazy  sort  of  cotton  bed-gown,  which  they  garbed  us  all  in  when 
we  were  taken  to  the  hospital;  and  this  chap's  eyes,  as  he  stared 
at  me,  looked  as  if  they  would  pop  out  of  his  head.  Perhaps  he 
thought  I  was  a  "gliding  ghost."  But  he  got  me  some  water,  and 
I  drank  copiously.  I  don't  clearly  remember  what  followed.  It 
seems  to  me  that  this  man  helped  me  back  to  my  tent,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  However,  I  was1  in  the  same  old  cot  next  morning. 

The  fare  at  the  hospital  was  not  of  a  nature  liable  to  generate 
an  attack  of  the  gout,  but  I  reckon  those  in  charge  did  the  best 
they  could.  The  main  thing  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  thin  soup,  with 
some  grains  of  rice,  or  barley,  in  it.  What  the  basis  of  it  was  I 
don't  know.  I  munched  a  hardtack  occasionally,  which  was  far  bet 
ter  than  the  soup.  But  my  appetite  was  quite  scanty,  anyhow. 
One  day  we  each  had  at  dinner,  served  in  our  tin  plates,  about  two 
or  three  tablespoonfuls  of  preserved  currants,  for  which  it  was  said 
we  were  indebted  to  the  U.  S.  Sanitary  Commission.  It  seemed 
that  a  boat  load  of  such  goods  came  down  the  river,  in  charge  of 
a  committee  of  ladies,  destined  for  our  hospitals  at  Vicksburg.  The 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER,  153 

boat  happened  to  make  a  temporary  stop  at  Helena,  and  the  ladies 
ascertained  that  there  was  at  the  hospitals  there  great  need  of 
sanitary  supplies,  so  they  donated  us  the  bulk  of  their  cargo.  I 
will  remark  here  that  that  little  dab  of  currants  was  all  the  U.  S. 
Sanitary  stuff  I  consumed  during  my  army  service.  I  am  not  kick 
ing;  merely  stating  the  fact.  Those  goods  very  properly  went  to 
the  hospitals,  and  as  my  stay  therein  was  brief,  my  share  of  the 
delicacies  was  consequently  correspondingly  slight. 

As  regards  the  medicine  given  us  in  the  hospital  at  Helena, 
my  recollection  is  that  it  was  almost  entirely  quinine,  and  the  doses 
were  frequent  and  copious,  which  I  suppose  was  all  right. 

There  was  a  boy  in  my  company  of  about  my  age ;  a  tall,  lanky 
chap,  named  John  Barton.  He  had  lived  in  our  neighborhood  at 
home,  and  we  were  well  acquainted  prior  to  our  enlistment.  He  was 
a  kind  hearted,  good  sort  of  a  fellow,  but  he  had,  while  in  the  army, 
one  unfortunate  weakness, — the  same  being  a  voracious  appetite 
for  intoxicating  liquor.  And  he  had  a  remarkable  faculty  for  get 
ting  the  stuff,  under  any  and  all  circumstances.  He  could  nose  it 
out,  in  some  way,  as  surely  and  readily  as  a  bear  could  find  a  bee- 
tree.  But  to  keep  the  record  straight,  I  will  further  say  that  after 
his  discharge  he  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  quit  the  use  of  whisky,  and 
lived  a  strictly  temperate  life.  He  was  "under  the  weather"  when 
the  regiment  left  Helena,  and  so  was  detailed  to  serve  as  a  nurse 
at  the  hospital,  and  was  thus  engaged  in  my  tent.  Since  making 
that  bad  break  at  Owl  Creek  I  had  avoided  whisky  as  if  it  were  a 
rattlesnake,  but  somehow,  while  here  in  the  hospital,  I  began  to 
feel  an  intense  craving  for  some  "spiritus  frumenti,"  as  the  sur 
geons  called  it.  So  one  day  I  asked  John  Barton  if  he  couldn't  get 
me  a  canteenful  of  whisky.  He  said  he  didn't  know,  was  afraid  it 
would  be  a  difficult  job, — but  to  give  him  my  canteen,  and  he  would 
try.  That  night,  as  late  maybe  as  one  or  two  o'clock,  and  when  the 
lights  were  nearly  all  out,  as  usual,  I  heard  some  one  stealthily 
walking  up  the  aisle,  and  stopping  occasionally  at  different  cots, 
and  presently  I  heard  a  hoarse  whisper,  "Stillwell!  Stillwell!" 
"Here!"  I  answered,  in  the  same  tone.  The  speaker  then  came  to 


154  THE   STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

me, — it  was  old  John,  and  stooping  down,  he  whispered,  "By  God, 
I've  got  it!"  "Bully  for  you,  John!"  said  I.  He  raised  me  to  a 
sitting  posture,  removed  the  cork,  and  put  the  mouth  of  the  can 
teen  to  my  lips, — and  I  drank  about  as  long  as  I  could  hold  my 
breath.  John  took  a  moderate  swig  himself,  then  carefully  put  the 
canteen  in  my  knapsack,  which  was  serving  as  my  pillow,  cautioned 
me  to  keep  it  concealed  to  avoid  its  being  stolen,  and  went  away. 
1  was  asleep  in  about  five  minutes  after  my  head  struck  my  knap 
sack,  and  slept  all  the  balance  of  the  night  just  like  a  baby.  On 
waking  up,  I  felt  better,  too,  and  wanted  something  to  eat.  How 
ever,  let  no  one  think,  who  may  read  these  lines,  that  I  favor  the 
use  of  whisky  as  a  medicine,  for  I  don't.  But  the  situation  in  those 
Helena  hospitals  was  unusual  and  abnormal.  The  water  was  bad, 
our  food  was  no  good  and  very  unsatisfactory,  and  the  conditions 
generally  were  simply  wretched.  I  am  not  blaming  the  military 
authorities.  They  doubtless  did  the  best  they  could.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  getting  weaker  every  day.  It  looked  as  if  something 
had  to  be  done,  and  acting  on  the  maxim  that  "desperate  cases  re 
quire  desperate  remedies,"  I  resorted  for  the  time  being  to  the 
whisky  treatment.  I  made  one  unsuccessful  attempt  afterwards  to 
get  some  to  serve  as  a  tonic,  which  perhaps  may  be  mentioned  later, 
and  then  forever  abandoned  the  use  of  the  stuff  for  any  purpose. 
Immediately  succeeding  the  above  mentioned  incident,  the 
fever  let  up  on  me,  and  I  began  to  get  better,  though  still  very 
weak.  My  great  concern,  right  now,  was  to  rejoin  the  regiment 
just  as  soon  as  possible.  It  was  taking  part  in  an  active  campaign, 
in  which  fighting  was  expected,  and  the  idea  was  intolerable  that 
the  other  boys  should  be  at  the  front,  marching  and  fighting,  while 
I  was  in  the  rear,  playing  the  part  of  a  "hospital  pimp."  It 
was  reported  that  a  steamboat  was  going  to  leave  soon,  via  Missis 
sippi  and  White  rivers,  with  convalescents  for  Steele's  army,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  on  that  boat,  at  all  hazards.  But  to  ac 
complish  that  it  was  necessary,  as  I  was  informed,  to  get  a  written 
permit  from  the  Division  Surgeon,  Maj.  Shuball  York,  of  the  54th 
Illinois  Infantry.  So  one  morning,  bright  and  early,  I  blacked  my 


THE  STORY  OF   A   COMMON    FOJDIER.  155 

shoes  and  brushed  up  my  old  cap  and  clothing  generally,  and  start 
ed  to  Maj.  York's  headquarters  to  get  the  desired  permission.  He 
was  occupying  a  large  two-story  house,  with  shade  trees  in  the 
yard,  in  the  residence  part  of  town,  and  his  office  was  in  the  parlor, 
in  the  first  story  of  the  building.  I  walked  in,  and  found  an  officer 
of  the  rank  of  Major  seated  at  a  table,  engaged  in  writing.  I  re 
moved  my  cap  and,  standing  at  attention,  saluted  him,  and  asked 
if  this  was  Maj.  York,  and  was  answered  in  the  affirmative.  I  had 
my  little  speech  carefully  prepared,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  de 
liver  it,  as  follows : 

"My  name  is  Leander  Stillwell;  I  am  a  sergeant  of  Co.  D,  of 
the  61st  Illinois  Infantry,  which  is  now  with  Gen.  Steele's  army. 
The  regiment  marched  about  a  week  ago,  and,  as  I  was  then  sick 
with  a  fever,  I  could  not  go,  but  was  sent  to  the  Division  Hospital, 
here  in  Helena.  I  am  now  well,  and  have  come  to  you  to  request  a 
permit  to  enable  me  to  rejoin  my  regiment." 

The  Major  looked  at  me  closely  while  I  was  speaking,  and 
after  I  had  concluded  he  remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  still 
scrutinizing  me  intently.  Then  he  said,  in  a  low  and  very  kind 
tone:  "Why,  sergeant,  you  are  not  able  for  duty,  and  won't  be  for 
some  time.  Stay  here  till  you  get  a  little  stronger." 

His  statement  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  me.  I  stood 
there  in  silence  a  little  while,  twisting  and  turning,  with  trembling 
hands,  my  old  faded  and  battered  cap.  I  finally  managed  to  say, 
"I  want — to  go — to — my  regiment;" — and  here  my  lips  began  to 
tremble,  and  I  got  no  further.  Now  don't  laugh  at  this.  It  was 
simply  the  case  of  a  boy,  weak  and  broken  down  by  illness,  who  was 
homesick  to  be  with  his  comrades.  The  Major  did  not  immediately 
respond  to  my  last  remark,  but  continued  to  look  at  me  intently. 
Presently  he  picked  up  his  pen,  and  said:  "I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  the  best  medical  treatment  for  you  is  to  let  you  go  to  your 
regiment;"  and  he  thereupon  wrote  and  handed  me  the  permit, 
which  was  quite  brief,  consisting  only  of  a  fe'w  lines.  I  thanked 
him,  and  departed  with  a  light  heart. 

I  will  digress  here  for  a  moment  to  chronicle,  with  deep  sor- 


156  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

row,  the  sad  fate  that  ultimately  befell  the  kind  and  noble  surgeon, 
Maj.  York.  While  he,  with  his  regiment,  was  home  on  veteran  fur 
lough,  in  March,  1864,  an  organized  gang  of  Copperheads  made  a 
dastardly  attack  on  some  of  the  soldiers  of  the  regiment  at  Charles 
ton,  Illinois,  and  murdered  Maj.  York  and  five  privates,  and  also 
severely  wounded  the  Colonel,  Greenville  M.  Mitchell,  and  three 
privates.  (See  Official  Records,  War  of  the  Rebellion,  Serial  No. 
57,  page  629,  et  seq.) 

The  war  ended  over  half  a  century  ago,  and  the  feelings  and 
passions  engendered  thereby,  as  between  the  people  of  the  Nation 
and  those  of  the  late  Confederate  States,  have  well-nigh  wholly  sub 
sided,  which  is  right.  But  nevertheless  I  will  set  it  down  here  that 
in  my  opinion  the  most  "undesirable  citizens"  that  ever  have  af 
flicted  our  country  were  the  traitorous,  malignant  breed  that  in 
fested  some  portions  of  the  loyal  States  during  the  war,  and  were 
known  as  "Copperheads."  The  rattlesnake  gives  warning  before 
it  strikes,  but  the  copperhead  snake,  of  equally  deadly  venom,  gives 
none,  and  the  two-legged  copperheads  invariably  pursued  the  same 
course.  They  deserved  the  name. 

On  leaving  Maj.  York's  office  I  returned  to  the  hospital  and 
gathered  up  my  stuff,  which  included  my  gun,  cartridge  box,  knap 
sack,  haversack,  and  canteen, — and  said  good-by  to  Barton  and  the 
other  boys  I  knew.  Then  to  the  commissary  tent,  and  exhibiting 
my  permit,  was  furnished  with  five  days'  rations  of  hardtack,  bacon, 
coffee,  and  sugar.  Thence  to  the  river  landing,  and  on  to  the  steam 
boat  "Pike,"  which  was  to  take  the  present  batch  of  convalescents 
to  Steele's  army. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  157 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DEVALL'S  BLUFF.— LITTLE  ROCK.— AUGUST-OCTOBER, 

1863. 

On  the  morning  of  August  21st,  the  "Pike"  cast  off,  and  start 
ed  down  the  Mississippi  river.  On  reaching  the  mouth  of  White 
river,  we  turned  up  that  stream,  and  on  August  26th  arrived  at 
Devall's  Bluff,  on  the  west  bank,  where  we  debarked.  Our  trip  from 
Helena  was  slow  and  uneventful.  The  country  along  White  river 
from  its  mouth  to  Devall's  Bluff  was  wild,  very  thinly  settled,  and 
practically  in  a  state  of  nature.  We  passed  only  two  towns  on  the 
stream — St.  Charles  and  Clarendon,  both  small  places.  On  differ 
ent  occasions  I  saw  several  bears  and  deer  on  the  river  bank,  they 
having  come  there  for  water.  Of  course  they  ran  back  into  the 
woods  when  the  boat  got  near  them.  All  of  Steele's  infantry  was 
temporarily  in  camp  at  DevalFs  Bluff,  while  his  cavalry  was  some 
miles  further  out.  I  soon  found  the  old  regiment,  and  received  a 
warm  welcome  from  all  of  Co.  D.  They  were  much  surprised  to 
see  me,  as  they  had  no  idea  that  I  would  be  able  to  leave  the  hos 
pital  so  soon.  They  had  had  no  fighting  on  this  campaign,  so  far, 
and  they  said  that  their  march  across  the  country  from  Helena 
had  been  monotonous  and  devoid  of  any  special  interest. 

During  my  first  night  at  Devall's  Bluff  there  came  a  heavy  and 
protracted  rain  storm,  and  on  waking  up  the  following  morning  I 
found  myself  about  half  hip-deep  in  a  puddle  of  water.  And  this 
was  the  beginning  of  more  trouble.  My  system  was  full  of  quinine 
taken  to  break  the  fever  while  in  the  hospital,  and  the  quinine  and 
this  soaking  in  the  water  did  not  agree.  In  a  short  time  I  began 
to  feel  acute  rheumatic  twinges  in  the  small  of  my  back,  and  in  a 
day  or  two  was  practically  helpless,  and  could  not  get  up,  or  walk 
around,  without  assistance. 

The  regiment  left  Devall's  Bluff,  with  the  balance  of  the  army, 


158  THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

on  September  1st,  advancing  towards  Little  Rock.  I  was  totally 
unable  to  march,  but  was  determined  to  go  along  some  way,  and 
with  Capt.  Keeley's  permission,  the  boys  put  me  into  one  of  the 
regimental  wragons.  This  wagon  happened  to  be  loaded  with  bar 
rels  of  pickled  pork,  standing  on  end,  and  my  seat  was  on  top  of  one 
of  the  barrels,  and  it  was  just  the  hardest,  most  painful  day's  ride 
in  a  wagon  I  ever  endured.  I  was  suffering  intensely  from  acute 
rheumatism  in  the  "coupling  region,"  and  in  this  condition  trying 
to  keep  steady  on  the  top  of  a  barrel,  and  being  occasionally  vio 
lently  pitched  against  the  ends  of  the  barrel  staves  when  the  wagon 
gave  a  lurch  into  a  deep  rut, — which  would  give  me  well-nigh  in 
tolerable  pain.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  day  was  very  hot,  so, 
when  evening  came  and  the  column  halted,  I  was  mighty  near  "all 
in."  But  some  of  the  boys  helped  me  out  and  laid  me  on  my 
blanket  in  the  shade,  and  later  brought  me  some  supper  of  hard 
tack,  bacon,  and  coffee.  Except  the  rheumatism,  I  was  all  right, 
and  had  a  good  appetite,  and  after  a  hearty  supper,  felt  better. 
Next  morning,  in  consequence  of  the  active  exertions  of  Capt. 
Keeley  in  the  matter,  an  ambulance  drove  up  where  I  was  lying, 
and  I  was  loaded  into  it,  and  oh,  it  was  a  luxury!  Poor  Enoch 
Wallace  had  been  taken  down  with  a  malarial  fever,  and  he  was 
also  a  passenger,  likewise  two  other  soldiers  whose  names  I  have 
forgotten.  Enoch  had  been  promoted  to  second  lieutenant  and  had 
been  acting  as  such  for  some  months,  but  his  commission  was  not 
issued  until  September  3rd, — a  day  when  he  was  a  very  sick  man. 
From  this  on,  until  September  10th,  the  day  our  forces  captured 
Little  Rock,  my  days  were  spent  in  the  ambulance.  At  night,  the 
sick  of  each  division  (of  whom  there  were  hundreds)  would 
bivouac  by  the  side  of  some  lagoon,  or  small  water  course,  the  at 
tendants  would  prepare  us  some  supper,  and  the  surgeons  would 
make  their  rounds,  administering  such  medicine  as  the  respective 
cases  required.  The  prevailing  type  of  sickness  was  malarial 
fever,  for  which,  the  sovereign  specific  seemed  to  be  quinine.  As 
for  me,  I  was  exempt  from  the  taking  of  medicine,  for  which  I  was 
thankful.  The  surgeon,  after  inquiry  into  my  case,  would  senten- 


kuc.  Vv. 
2nd  Lieutenant  Co.  D,  61st  Illinois  Infantry. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  159 

tiously  remark,  "Ah !  acute  rheumatism,"  and  pass  on.  I  was  at  a 
loss  to  understand  this  seeming  neglect,  but  a  sort  of  explanation 
was  given  me  later,  which  will  be  mentioned  in  its  order.  The  food 
that  was  given  the  sick  was  meager  and  very  unsatisfactory,  but  it 
was  probably  the  best  that  could  be  furnished,  under  the  circum 
stances.  Each  man  was  given  an  oyster-can  full  of  what  seemed 
to  be  beef -soup,  with  some  rice  or  barley  grains  in  it.  By  the  time 
it  got  around  to  us  there  was  usually  a  thin  crust  of  cold  tallow  on 
the  top,  and  the  mere  looks  of  the  mess  was  enough  to  spoil  one's 
appetite, — if  he  had  any.  One  evening,  Wallace  and  I  were  sitting 
side  by  side  with  our  backs  against  a  tree,  when  an  attendant  came 
to  us  and  gave  each  one  his  can  of  the  decoction  above  mentioned. 
It  was  comical  to  see  the  look  of  disgust  that  came  over  the  face  of 
poor  Enoch.  He  turned  towards  me,  and  tilting  his  can  slightly 
to  enable  me  to  see  the  contents,  spoke  thus :  "Now,  ain't  this  nice 
stuff  to  give  a  sick  man?  I've  a  good  notion  to  throw  the  whole 
business  in  that  fellow's  face;"  (referring  to  the  attendant).  "The 
trouble  with  you,  Enoch,"  I  said,  "is  that  you  are  losing  your 
patriotism,  and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you'd  turn  Secesh  yet. 
Kicking  on  this  rich,  delicious  soup !  Next  thing  you'll  be  order 
ing  turtle-soup  and  clamoring  for  napkins  and  finger-bowls.  You 
remind  me  of  a  piece  of  poetry  I  have  read  somewhere,  something 
like  this : 

'Jeshurun  waxed  fat, 

And  down  his  belly  hung, 
Against  the  government  he  kicked, 

And  high  his  buttocks  flung'." 

The  poor  old  fellow  leaned  back  against  the  tree,  and  indulged  in  a 
long,  silent  laugh  that  really  seemed  to  do  him  good.  I  would  joke 
with  him,  after  this  fashion,  a  good  deal,  and  long  afterwards  he 
told  me  that  he  believed  he  would  have  died  on  that  march  if  I 
hadn't  kept  his  spirits  up  by  making  ridiculous  remarks.  (In 
speaking  of  Wallace  as  "old,"  the  word  is  used  in  a  comparative 
sense,  for  the  fact  is  he  was  only  about  thirty-four  years  of  age 
at  this  time.) 


160  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

On  the  evening  of  September  9th,  the  sick  of  our  division 
bivouacked  by  the  side  of  a  small  bayou,  in  a  dense  growth  of  forest 
trees.  Next  morning  the  rumor  spread  among  us  that  on  that 
day  a  battle  was  impending,  that  our  advance  was  close  to  the  Con 
federates,  and  that  a  determined  effort  would  be  made  for  the 
capture  of  Little  Rock.  Sure  enough,  during  the  forenoon,  the 
cannon  began  to  boom  a  few  miles  west  of  us,  and  our  infantry  was 
seen  rapidly  moving  in  that  direction.  As  I  lay  there  helpless  on 
the  ground,  I  could  not  avoid  worrying  somewhat  about  the  out 
come  of  the  battle.  If  our  forces  should  be  defeated,  we  sick  fel 
lows  would  certainly  be  in  a  bad  predicament.  I  could  see,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  our  ambulance  starting  on  a  gallop  for  Devall's  Bluff, 
while  every  jolt  of  the  conveyance  would  inflict  on  me  excruciating 
pain.  But  this  suspense  did  not  last  long.  The  artillery  practice 
soon  began  moving  further  towards  the  west,  and  was  only  of  short 
duration  anyhow.  And  we  saw  no  stragglers,  which  was  an  en 
couraging  sign,  and  some  time  during  the  afternoon  we  learned 
that  all  was  going  in  our  favor.  From  the  standpoint  of  a 
common  soldier,  I  have  always  thought  that  General  Steele  ef 
fected  the  capture  of  Little  Rock  with  commendable  skill  and  in 
a  manner  that  displayed  sound  military  judgment.  The  town  was 
on  the  west  side  of  the  Arkansas  river,  and  our  army  approached 
it  from  the  east.  Gen.  Price,  the  Confederate  commander,  had 
constructed  strong  breastworks  a  short  distance  east  of  the  town, 
and  on  the  east  side  of  the  river,  commanding  the  road  on  which 
we  were  approaching.  The  right  of  these  works  rested  on  the 
river,  and  the  left  on  an  impassable  swamp.  But  Gen.  Steele  did 
not  choose  to  further  Price's  plans  by  butting  his  infantry  up 
against  the  Confederate  works.  He  entertained  him  at  that  point 
by  ostentatious  demonstrations,  and  attacked  elsewhere.  The 
Arkansas  was  very  low,  in  many  places  not  much  more  than  a 
wide  sandbar,  and  was  easily  fordable  at  numerous  points.  So 
Steele  had  his  cavalry  and  some  of  his  infantry  ford  the  river  to  the 
west  side,  below  the  town,  and  advance  along  the  west  bank,  which 
was  not  fortified.  Gen.  Price,  seeing  that  his  position  was  turned 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  101 

and  that  his  line  of  retreat  was  in  danger  of  being  cut  off,  with 
drew  his  troops  from  the  east  side  and  evacuated  Little  Rock  about 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  retreating  southwest.  Our  troops 
followed  close  on  his  heels,  and  marched  in  and  took  possession  of 
the  capital  city  of  the  State  of  Arkansas.  Our  loss,  in  the  entire 
campaign,  was  insignificant,  being  only  a  little  over  a  hundred,  in 
killed,  wounded,  and  missing.  The  61st  was  with  the  troops  that 
operated  on  the  east  side  of  the  river,  and  sustained  no  loss  what 
ever.  A  few  cannon  balls,  poorly  aimed  and  flying  high,  passed 
over  the  regiment,  but  did  no  mischief,— beyond  shaking  the  nerves 
of  some  recruits  who  never  before  had  been  under  fire. 

About  sundown  on  the  evening  of  the  10th,  the  ambulance 
drivers  hitched  up,  and  the  sick  were  taken  to  a  division  hospital 
located  near  the  east  bank  of  the  river.  Capt.  Keeley  came  over 
the  next  day  to  see  Wallace  and  myself,  and,  at  my  urgent  request, 
he  arranged  for  me  to  be  sent  to  the  regiment.  As  heretofore 
stated,  I  just  loathed  the  idea  of  being  in  a  hospital.  There  were 
so  many  disagreeable  and  depressing  things  occurring  there  every 
day,  and  which  could  not  be  helped,  that  they  inspired  in  me  a  sort 
of  desperate  determination  to  get  right  out  of  such  a  place,— and 
stay  out,  if  possible.  Early  next  morning  an  ambulance  drove  up, 
I  was  put  in  it,  and  taken  to  the  camp  of  the  old  regiment.  Some 
of  the  boys  carried  me  into  a  tent,  and  laid  me  down  on  a  cot,  and  I 
was  once  more  in  the  society  of  men  who  were  not  groaning  with 
sickness,  but  were  cheerful  and  happy.  But  it  was  my  fate  to  lie 
on  that  cot  for  more  than  a  month,  and  unable  even  to  turn  over 
without  help.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness  of  Frank 
Gates  during  that  time.  He  would  come  every  day,  when  not  on 
duty,  and  bathe  and  rub  my  rheumatic  part  with  a  rag  soaked  in 
vinegar,  almost  scalding  hot,  which  seemed  to  give  me  temporary 
relief.  There  was  an  old  doctor,  of  the  name  of  Thomas  D.  Wash- 
burn,  an  assistant  surgeon  of  the  126th  Illinois  Infantry,  who,  for 
some  reason,  had  been  detailed  to  serve  temporarily  with  our  regi 
ment,  and  he  would  sometimes  drop  in  to  see  me.  He  was  a  tall 
old  man,  something  over  six  feet  high,  and  gaunt  in  proportion.  I 


162  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER, 

don't  remember  that  he  ever  gave  me  any  medicine,  or  treatment  of 
any  kind,  for  the  reason,  doubtless,  that  will  now  be  stated.  One 
day  I  said  to  him,  ''Doctor,  is  there  nothing  that  can  be  done  for 
me?  Must  I  just  lie  here  and  suffer  indefinitely?"  He  looked 
down  at  me  sort  of  sympathetically,  and  slowly  said :  "I  will  answer 
your  question  by  telling  you  a  little  story.  Once  upon  a  time  a 
young  doctor  asked  an  old  one  substantially  the  same  question  you 
have  just  asked  me,  which  the  old  doctor  answered  by  saying: 
'Yes,  there  is  just  one  remedy: — six  weeks'."  And,  patting  me 
lightly  on  the  shoulder,  he  further  remarked,  "That's  all;"  and 
left.  The  sequel  in  my  case  confirmed  Dr.  Washburn's  story. 

The  spot  where  the  regiment  went  into  camp  on  the  day  of  the 
capture  of  Little  Rock  was  opposite  the  town,  on  the  east  bank  of 
the  Arkansas,  not  far  from  the  river,  and  in  a  scattered  grove  of 
trees.  The  locality  was  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  suburb  of  the 
town,  and  was  designated  at  the  time  in  army  orders  as  "Hunters- 
ville."  But  the  only  house  that  I  now  remember  of  being  near  our 
camp  was  a  little,  old,  ramshackle  building  that  served  as  a  rail 
road  depot.  Speaking  of  the  railroad,  it  extended  only  from  here 
to  Devall's  Bluff,  a  distance  of  about  fifty  miles,  and  was  the  only 
railroad  at  that  time  in  the  State  of  Arkansas.  The  original  pro 
ject  of  the  road  contemplated  a  line  from  Little  Rock  to  a  point  on 
the  Mississippi  opposite  Memphis.  Work  was  begun  on  the  west 
ern  terminus,  and  the  road  was  completed  and  in  operation  as  far 
as  Devall's  Bluff  before  the  war,  and  then  the  war  came  along  and 
the  work  stopped.  Since  then  the  road  has  been  completed  as 
originally  planned.  This  little  old  sawed-off  railroad  was  quite  a 
convenience  to  our  army  at  the  Rock,  as  it  obviated  what  otherwise 
would  have  been  the  necessity  of  hauling  our  supplies  in  wagons 
across  the  country  from  Devall's  Bluff.  It  also  frequently  came 
handy  for  transporting  the  troops,  and  several  times  saved  our 
regiment,  and,  of  course,  others,  from  a  hot  and  tiresome  march. 

For  some  weeks  while  in  camp  at  Huntersville,  we  lived  high 
on  several  articles  of  food  not  included  in  the  army  rations.  There 
were  a  good  many  sheep  in  the  country  round  about  that  the  mili- 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  163 

tary  authorities  confiscated,  and  so  we  had  many  a  feast  on  fine, 
fresh  mutton.  Corn  was  plentiful  also,  and  corn  meal  was  issued  to 
us  liberally.  Last,  but  not  least,  the  rich  Arkansas  river  bottom 
lands  abounded  in  great  big  yellow  sweet  potatoes  that  the  country 
people  called  "yams/'  and  we  just-reveled  in  them  to  our  entire 
satisfaction. 

There  was  a  boy  in  my  company  named  William  Banfield, 
about  the  same  age  as  myself.  We  had  been  near  neighbors  at 
home,  and  intimate  friends.  Bill  was  a  splendid  soldier,  seldom 
sick,  and  always  performed  his  soldier  duties  cheerfully  and  with 
out  grumbling.  And  Bill  was  blessed  with  a  good  digestion,  and 
apparently  was  always  hungry.  The  place  where  he  would  build 
his  cook-fire  in  this  camp  was  near  the  front  of  my  tent,  where  I 
had  a  good  view  of  his  operations.  I  was  lying  helpless  on  my 
cot,  and,  like  others  so  situated  from  time  immemorial,  had  noth 
ing  to  do,  and  scarcely  did  anything  else  but  watch  the  neighbors. 
Among  the  cherished  possessions  of  our  company  was  an  old- 
fashioned  cast-iron  Dutch  oven,  of  generous  proportions,  which 
was  just  the  dandy  for  baking  mutton.  Well,  Bill  would,  in  the 
first  place,  get  his  chunk  of  mutton,  a  fine  big  piece  of  the  saddle,  or 
of  a  ham,  and  put  it  on  to  cook  in  the  oven.  Then  we  had  another 

'en,  a  smaller  affair  of  the  skillet  order,  in  which  Bill  would  set 
to  cooking  a  corn  meal  cake.  At  the  right  stage  of  the  proceedings 

J  would  slice  up  some  yams,  and  put  them  in  with  the  mutton. 
Next,  and  last, ,  he  would  make  at  least  a  quart  of  strong,  black 
coffee.  Both  from  long  experience  and  critical  observation,  Bill 
knew  to  the  fraction  of  a  minute  how  long  it  would  take  for  all  his 
converging  columns  of  table  comforts  to  reach  the  done  point  on 
time  and  all  together,  and  the  resulting  harmony  was  perfection 
itself,  and  (to  use  an  overworked  phrase)  "left  nothing  to  be  de 
sired."  Dinner  now  being  ready,  the  first  thing  Bill  did  was  to 
bring  me  an  ample  allowance  of  the  entire  bill  of  fare,  and  which, 
by  the  way,  I  had  to  dispose  of  as  best  I  could  lying  down,  as  it? 
was  impossible  for  me  to  sit  up.  Having  seen  to  the  needs  of  a 
disabled  comrade,  Bill  next  proceeded  to  clear  his  own  decks  for 


164  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 

action.  He  seated  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  big  tree,  on  the  shady 
side,  with  his  back  against  the  trunk ;  then  spreading  his  legs  apart 
in  the  shape  of  a  pair  of  carpenter's  compasses,  he  placed  between 
them  the  oven  containing  the  mutton  and  yams,  at  his  left  hand 
the  skillet  with  the  cornbread,  and  on  his  right  his  can  of  coffee— 
and  then  the  services  began.  And  how  Bill  would  enjoy  his  dinner ! 
There  was  no  indecent  haste  about  it,  no  bolting  of  the  delicacies, 
or  anything  of  the  sort.  He  proceeded  slowly  and  with  dignity, 
while  occasionally  he  would  survey  the  landscape  with  a  placid, 
contented  air.  But  everything  was  devoured, — the  last  crumb  of 
cornbread  did  duty  in  sopping  up  the  final  drop  of  grease.  The 
banquet  over,  Bill  would  sit  there  a  while  in  silence,  gazing,  per 
chance,  at  the  shimmering  waters  of  the  Arkansas,  and  its  sand 
bars,  glittering  in  the  sun.  But  ere  long  his  head  would  begin  to 
droop,  he  would  throw  one  leg  over  the  Dutch  oven,  swinging  the 
limb  clear  of  that  utensil,  settle  himself  snugly  against  the  tree,  and 
in  about  five  minutes  would  be  asleep. 

At  the  time  I  am  now  writing,  (October,  1916,)  Bill  is  yet 
alive,  and  residing  at  Grafton,  Illinois.  He  is  a  good  old  fellow, 
and  "long  may  he  wave." 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  165 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


LITTLE  ROCK,  OCTOBER,  1863. —GRANTED  A  FURLOUGH.— 
CHAPLAIN  B.  B.  HAMILTON  .—THE  JOURNEY  ON  FUR 
LOUGH  FROM  LITTLE  ROCK  TO  JERSEY  COUNTY, 
ILLINOIS.— RETURN  TO  REGIMENT, 

NOVEMBER,  1863. 

About  the  middle  of  October  the  regiment  shifted  its  camp 
ground  from  Huntersville  to  an  open  space  on  the  west  side  of  the 
river,  near  the  State  penitentiary,  where  we  remained  all  the  en 
suing  winter.     Soon  after  this  change  of   camp    it   was   reported 
among  us  that  one  man  from  each  company  would  soon  be  granted 
a  thirty  day  furlough.    Prior  to  this,  while  in  Tennessee,  there  had 
been  a  very  few  furloughs  granted  in  exceptional  cases,   which 
were  all  the  indulgencies  of  that  kind  the  regiment  had  so  far  re 
ceived.    I  made  no  request  to  be  the  favored  man  of  our  company 
in  this  matter,  but  one  day  Capt.  Keeley  told  me  that  he  had  decided 
that  I  should  be  the  furloughed  man  from  Co.  D,  and  could  make 
my  arrangements  accordingly.    By  this  time  I  had  so  far  recovered 
from  my  rheumatism  that  I  could  walk  around  with  the  aid  of  a 
cane,  but  was  very  "shaky"  on  foot,  and  any  sudden  shock  or  jar 
would  make  me  flinch  with  pain.    I  wondered  how  I  should  be  able 
to  get  from  the  camp  to  the  railroad  depot  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  with  my  knapsack,  haversack  and  canteen,  and  their  neces 
sary  contents,  for  I  was  utterly  unable  to  carry  them.    I  happened 
to  mention  this  problem  to  the  chaplain  of  the  regiment,  B.  B.  Ham 
ilton.    He  was  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  my  parents,  and,  as  he 
had  lived  only  a  few  miles  from  our  home,  I  knew  him  quite  well 
before  the  war,  and  had  heard  him  preach  many  a  time.    He  was 
of  the  Baptist  denomination,  and  my  parents  were  of  the  same  re 
ligious  faith.     At  this  time  he  was  still  what  I  would  now  call  a 
young  man,  being  only  about  forty  years  old.    My  father's  given 


166  THE  STORY£OF£A1COMMON  SOLDIER. 

name  was  Jeremiah,  and  the  Chaplain  almost  invariably,  when 
speaking  to  me,  would,  in  a  grave,  deliberate  manner,  address  me 
as  "Son  of  Jeremiah."  When  I  mentioned  xo  him  my  perplexity 
above  indicated,  he  responded;  "Son  of  Jeremiah,  let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled.  The  Lord  will  provide."  Knowing  that  what 
he  said  could  be  depended  upon,  I  asked  no  questions.  The  precious 
document  giving  me  thirty-days  leave  of  absence  was  delivered 
to  me  in  due  time,  and  our  little  squad  arranged  to  start  on  the 
next  train,  and  which  would  leave  Little  Rock  for  Devall's  Bluff 
early  the  following  day.  I  had  my  breakfast  betimes  the  next 
morning,  and  was  sitting  on  the  ground  in  front  of  my  tent,  with 
my  traps  by  me,  when  Chaplain  Hamilton  came  riding  up  on  his 
horse.  He  dismounted,  and  saying  to  me,  "Son  of  Jeremiah,  the 
Lord  has  provided,"  thereupon,  helped  me  on  his  horse,  and  we 
started  for  the  depot,  the  Chaplain  walking  by  my  side.  We  crossed 
the  Arkansas  on  a  sort  of  improvised  army  bridge,  and  were  ap 
proaching  the  depot,  when  a  locomotive  on  the  track  near-by  began 
to  let  off  steam.  The  horse  evidently  was  not  accustomed  to  that, 
he  gave  a  frantic  snort,  and  began  to  prance  and  rear.  For  a  sec 
ond  or  so  I  was  in  an  agony  of  apprehension.  I  was  incumbered 
with  my  knapsack  and  other  things,  was  weak  and  feeble,  and  no 
horseman  anyhow,  and  knew  that  if  I  should  be  violently  thrown 
to  the  ground,  it  would  just  about  break  me  all  to  pieces,  and  my 
furlough  would  end  then  and  there.  But  it  is  likely  that  the  Chap 
lain  may  have  apprehended  the  horse's  conduct;  at  any  rate,  he 
was  on  the  alert.  With  one  bound  he  was  in  front  of  the  frightened 
animal,  holding  him  firmly  by  the  bridle  bits,  and  had  him  under 
control  at  once.  And  about  the  same  time  the  engine  stopped  its 
noise,  and  the  trouble  was  over.  The  cars  destined  for  Devall's 
Bluff  were  on  the  track,  and  the  Chaplain,  and  some  of  our  fur 
lough  party  who  had  already  arrived,  helped  me  on  the  train.  Of 
course  there  were  no  passenger  coaches, — just  box  and  gravel  cars, 
and  I  seated  myself  on  the  floor  of  one  of  the  latter.  I  gratefully 
thanked  the  Chaplain  for  his  kindness,  he  said  a  few  pleasant 
words,  gave  me  a  kind  message  for  the  folks  at  home,  wished  me 
a  safe  and  pleasant  trip,  and  then  rode  away. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  167 

This  is  probably  a  fitting  place  to  pay  a  brief  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  Chaplain  Hamilton,  so  I  will  proceed  to  do  so.  The  first 
chaplain  of  the  regiment  was  a  minister  named  Edward  Rutledge. 
He  was  appointed  May  16,  1862,  and  resigned  September  3rd,  of 
the  same  year.  I  do  not  remember  of  his  ever  officiating  often  in 
the  capacity  of  chaplain.  I  recall  just  one  occasion  when  he 
preached  to  us,  and  that  was  under  somewhat  peculiar  circum 
stances.  He  came  to  the  regiment  when  we  were  in  camp  at  Owl 
Creek,  Tennessee,  and,  soon  after  his  arrival,  there  was  read  one 
Saturday  evening  at  dress  parade  an  order  in  substance  and  effect 
as  follows:  That  at  a  designated  time  on  the  following  morning 
the  men  would  assemble  on  their  respective  company  parade 
grounds,  wearing  their  "side-arms,"  (which  included  waist-  and 
shoulder-belts,  cartridge-box,  cap-pouch  and  bayonet,)  and  under 
the  command  of  a  commissioned  officer  each  company  would  march 
to  the  grove  where  the  chaplain  would  hold  religious  services.  Well, 
I  didn't  like  that  order  one  bit,  and  the  great  majority  of  the  boys 
felt  the  same  way.  The  idea  of  having  to  attend  church  under  com 
pulsion  seemed  to  me  to  infringe  on  our  constitutional  rights  as 
free-born  American  citizens,  that  while  it  might  have  been  a  thing 
to  be  endured  in  the  days  described  in  Fox's  "Book  of  Martyrs," 
nevertheless,  it  wasn't  exactly  fair  right  now.  But  orders  must  be 
obeyed,  so  we  all  turned  out  with  the  prescribed  "side-arms,"  and, 
like  the  young  oysters  that  were  inveigled  by  the  Walrus  and  the 
Carpenter, — 

"Our  clothes  were  brushed,  our  faces  washed, 
Our  shoes  were  clean  and  neat." 

But  it  is  much  to  be  feared  that  the  chaplain's  discourse  didn't  do 
anybody  a  bit  of  good.  For  my  part,  I  don't  now  remember  a  word, 
not  even  the  text.  The  order  aforesaid  gave  so  much  dissatisfac 
tion  to  the  rank  and  file,  and  perhaps  to  some  of  the  line  officers 
also,  that  it  was  never  repeated,  and  thereafter  attendance  on  the 
chaplain's  preaching  was  a  matter  left  to  each  man's  pleasure  and 
discretion.  Judging  only  from  what  came  under  my  personal 
notice,  I  don't  think  that  much  good  was  ever  accomplished  by 


168  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

chaplains  in  the  Western  army,  as  regards  matters  of  a  purely  theo 
logical  nature.  As  some  one  has  said  somewhere :  "Army  service 
in  time  of  war  is  d — d  hard  on  religion."  But  in  practical,  every 
day  matters,  chaplains  had  ample  opportunities  for  doing,  and  did, 
a  great  deal  of  good.  They  held  the  rank  and  wore  the  uniform 
of  a  captain, — and,  while  they  had  no  military  command  over  the 
men,  they  were,  nevertheless,  so  far  as  I  ever  saw,  always  treated 
by  the  soldiers  with  the  most  kind  and  respectful  consideration. 
To  fill  the  vacancy  caused  by  the  resignation  of  Rutledge,  B.  B. 
Hamilton  was  commissioned  chaplain  on  October  30,  1862,  and  came 
to  us  about  that  date.  He  had  been  active  in  the  ministry  at  home 
for  many  years,  and  during  that  time  had  preached  in  Jersey, 
Greene,  and  the  adjoining  counties,  so  he  was  personally  known 
to  many  of  the  officers  and  men.  He  was  a  man  of  good,  sound 
common  sense,  an  excellent  judge  of  human  nature,  and  endowed 
with  a  dry,  quaint  sort  of  humor  that  was  delightful.  When  talk 
ing  with  intimate  friends,  he  was,  prone,  at  times,  to  drop  into  an 
Oriental  style  of  conversation,  well  garnished  with  sayings  and  il 
lustrations  from  the  Bible.  I  don't  remember  now  of  his  preach 
ing  to  us  very  often,  arid  when  he  did  he  was  tactful  in  selecting  a 
time  when  the  conditions  were  all  favorable.  In  his  discourses  he 
ignored  all  questions  of  theology,  such  as  faith,  frsa-will,  foreordi- 
nation,  the  final  perseverance  of  the  saints,  and  such  like,  and  got 
right  down  to  matters  involved  in  our  every-day  life.  He  would 
admonish  us  to  be  careful  about  our  health,  to  avoid  excesses  of 
any  kind  that  might  be  injurious  to  us  in  that  respect,  and  above  all 
things,  to  be  faithful  and  brave  soldiers,  and  conduct  ourselves  in 
such  a  manner  that  our  army  record  would  be  an  honor  to  us,  and 
a  source  of  pride  and  satisfaction  to  our  parents  and  friends  at 
home.  In  camp  or  on  the  march,  he  was  a  most  useful  and  indus 
trious  man.  He  would  visit  the  sick,  write  letters  for  them,  and 
in  general  look  after  their  needs  in  countless  ways.  He  wrote  a 
fine,  neat,  legible  hand,  and  rendered  much  assistance  to  many  of 
the  line  officers  in  making  out  the  muster  and  pay  rolls  of  their 
respective  companies,  and  in  attending  to  other  matters  connected 


Chaplain  61st  Illinois  Infantry. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  160 

with  the  company  records,  or  official  correspondence.  And  when 
the  regiment  had  fighting  to  do,  or  a  prospect  of  any,  Chaplain 
Hamilton  was  always  at  the  front.  In  the  affair  at  Salem  Ceme 
tery,  Hez.  Giberson  of  Co.  G  was  knocked  down  and  rendered  in 
sensible  for  a  short  time  by  the  near-by  explosion  of  a  shell.  Ham 
ilton  ran  to  him,  picked  him  up,  and  taking  him  by  the  arm, 
marched  him  to  the  rear,  while  shells  were  bursting  all  around  us. 
I  saw  them  as  they  walked  by, — Giberson  white  as  a  sheet,  stagger 
ing,  and  evidently  deathly  sick,  but  the  chaplain  clung  to  him,  kept 
him  on  his  feet,  and  ultimately  turned  him  over  to  the  surgeon. 

The  spring  of  1865  found  the  regiment  at  Franklin,  Tennessee. 
The  war  was  then  practically  over  in  that  region,  and  any  organ 
ized  armies  of  the  Confederates  were  hundreds  of  miles  away.  Ham 
ilton's  health  had  become  greatly  impaired,  and  in  view  of  all  those 
conditions,  he  concluded  to  resign,  and  did  so,  on  March  3rd,  1865, 
and  thereupon  returned  to  his  old  home  in  Illinois.  The  vacancy 
caused  by  his  resignation  was  never  filled,  and  thereafter  we  had 
no  religious  services  in  the  regiment  except  on  two  or  three  occa 
sions,  rendered  by  volunteers,  whose  names  I  have  forgotten.  After 
leaving  the  army,  Chaplain  Hamilton  led  a  life  of  activity  and  use 
fulness  until  incapacitated  by  his  final  illness.  He  died  at  Upper 
Alton,  Illinois,  on  November  llth,  1894,  at  the  age  of  nearly  seven 
ty-three  years,  respected  and  loved  by  all  who  knew  him.  He  was 
a  good,  patriotic,  brave  man.  I  never  saw  him  but  once  after  he 
left  the  army,  but  we  kept  up  a  fraternal  correspondence  with  each 
other  as  long  as  he  lived. 

I  will  now  return  to  the  little  squad  of  furloughed  Sixty-one- 
sters  that  was  left  a  while  ago  on  the  freight  cars  at  Little  Rock. 
The  train  pulled  out  early  in  the  day  for  Devall's  Bluff,  where  we 
arrived  about  noon.  We  at  once  made  our  way  to  the  boat-landing, 
— and  I  simply  am  unable  to  describe  our  disappointment  when  we 
found  no  steamboats  there.  After  making  careful  inquiry,  we  ware 
unable  to  get  any  reliable  information  in  regard  to  the  time  of  the 
arrival  of  any  from  below, — it  might  be  the  next  hour,  or  maybe 
not  for  several  days.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  just  biv- 


170  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

ouac  there  by  the  river  bank,  and  wait.  And  there  we  waited  for 
two  long  days  of  our  precious  thirty,  and  were  getting  fairly  des 
perate,  when  one  afternoon  the  scream  of  a  whistle  was  heard,  and 
soon  the  leading  boat  of  a  small  fleet  poked  its  nose  around  the  bend 
about  half  a  mile  below, — and  we  sprang  to  our  feet,  waved  our 
caps  and  yelled !  We  ascertained  that  the  boats  would  start  on  the 
return  trip  to  the  mouth  of  White  river  as  soon  as  they  unloaded 
their  army  freight.  This  was  accomplished  by  the  next  morning, 
we  boarded  the  first  one  ready  to  start,  a  small  stern-wheeler,  and 
some  time  on  the  second  day  thereafter  arrived  at  the  mouth  of 
White  river.  There  we  landed,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  later  boarded  a  big  side-wheeler  destined  for  Cairo,  which 
stopped  to  take  us  on.  When  it  rounded  in  for  that  purpose,  the 
members  of  our  little  squad  were  quite  nervous,  and  there  was  a 
rush  on  the  principle  of  every  fellow  for  himself.  I  was  hobbling 
along  with  my  traps,  as  best  I  could,  when  in  going  down  the  river 
bank,  which  was  high  and  steep,  in  some  way  I  stumbled  and  fell, 
and  rolled  clear  to  the  bottom,  and  just  lay  there  helpless.  There 
was  one  of  our  party  of  the  name  of  John  Powell,  of  Co.  G,  a  young 
fellow  about  twenty -two  or  -three  years  old.  He  was  not  tall,  only 
about  five  feet  and  eight  or  nine  inches,  but  was  remarkably  broad 
across  the  shoulders  and  chest,  and  had  the  reputation  of  being  the 
strongest  man  in  the  regiment.  He  happened  to  see  the  accident 
that  had  befallen  me,  and  ran  to  me,  picked  me  up  in  his  arms,  with 
my  stuff,  the  same  as  if  I  had  been  a  baby,  and  "toted"  me  on  the 
boat.  He  hunted  up  a  cozy  corner  on  the  leeward  side,  set  me  down 
carefully,  and  then  said,  "Now,  you  d — d  little  cuss,  I  guess  you 
won't  fall  down  here."  And  all  the  balance  of  the  trip,  until  our 
respective  routes  diverged,  he  looked  after  me  the  same  as  if  I  had 
been  his  brother.  He  was  a  splendid,  big-hearted  fellow.  While 
ascending  the  Mississippi,  the  weather  was  cloudy  and  foggy,  the 
boat  tied  up  at  nights,  and  our  progress  generally  was  tantalizingly 
slow.  We  arrived  at  Cairo  on  the  afternoon  of  October  26th.  It 
was  a  raw,  chilly,  autumn  day,  a  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  and 
everything  looked  uncomfortable  and  wretched.  We  went  to  the 


THE  STORYJ3F  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  171 

depot  of  the  Illinois  Central  railroad,  and  on  inquiry  learned  that 
our  train  would  not  leave  until  about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  so  ap 
parently  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  down  and  wait.  My 
thoughts  were  soon  dwelling  on  the  first  time  I  saw  Cairo, — that 
bright  sunny  afternoon  in  the  latter  part  of  March,  1862.  I  was 
then  in  superb  health  and  buoyant  spirits,  and  inspired  by  radiant 
hopes  and  glowing  anticipations.  Only  a  little  over  a  year  and  a 
half  had  elapsed,  and  I  was  now  at  the  old  town  again,  but  this 
time  in  broken  health,  and  hobbling  about  on  a  stick.  But  it  soon 
occurred  to  me  that  many  of  my  comrades  had  met  a  still  more  un 
fortunate  fate,  and  by -this  comparison  method  I  presently  got  in 
a  more  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  And  something  happened  to  come 
to  pass  that  materially  aided  that  consummation.  Some  of  our 
party  who  had  been  scouting  around  the  town  returned  with  the 
intelligence  that  they  had  found  a  place  called  "The  Soldiers' 
Home,"  where  all  transient  soldiers  were  furnished  food  and  shel 
ter  "without  money  and  without  price."  This  was  most  welcome 
news,  for  our  rations  were  practically  exhausted,  and  our  money 
supply  was  so  meager  that  economy  was  a  necessity.  It  was  near- 
ing  supper  time,  so  we  started  at  once  for  the  Home,  in  hopes  of 
getting  a  square  meal.  On  reaching  the  place  we  found  already 
formed  a  long  "queue"  of  hungry  sold:ers,  in  two  ranks,  extending 
from  the  door  away  out  into  the  street.  We  took  our  stand  at  the 
end  of  the  line,  and  waited  patiently.  The  building  was  a  long,  low, 
frame  structure,  of  a  barrack-like  style,  and  of  very  unpretentious 
appearance, — but,  as  we  found  out  soon,  the  inside  was  better.  In 
due  time,  the  door  was  opened,  and  we  all  filed  in.  The  room  was 
well-lighted,  and  warm,  and  long  rows  of  rough  tables  extended 
clear  across,  with  benches  for  seats.  And  oh,  what  a  splendid  supper 
we  had!  Strong,  hot  coffee,  soft  bread,  cold  boiled  beef,  molasses, 
stewed  dried  apples, — and  even  cucumber  pickles !  Supper  over, 
we  went  back  to  the  depot,  all  feeling  better,  and  I've  had  a  warm 
spot  in  my  heart  for  the  old  town  of  Cairo  ever  since.  But  it  cer 
tainly  did  look  hard  at  this  time.  Its  population,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  was  only  a  little  over  two  thousand,  the  houses  were 


172  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

small  and  dilapidated,  and  everything  was  dirty,  muddy,  slushy,  and 
disagreeable  in  general.  In  October,  1914,  I  happened  to  be  in 
Cairo  again,  and  spent  several  hours  there,  roaming  around,  and 
looking  at  the  town.  The  lapse  of  half  a  century  had  wrought  a 
wonderful  change.  Its  population  was  now  something  over  fifteen 
thousand,  the  streets  were  well  paved  and  brilliantly  lighted,  and 
long  blocks  of  tall,  substantial  buildings  had  superseded  the  un 
sightly  shacks  of  the  days  of  the  Civil  War.  But  on  this  occasion 
I  found  no  vestige  of  our  "Soldiers'  Home,"  nor  was  any  person  of 
whom  inquiry  was  made  able  to  give  me  the  slightest  information 
as  to  where  it  had  stood.  The  only  thing  I  saw  in  the  town,  or  that 
vicinity,  that  looked  natural,  was  the  Ohio  river,  and  even  its  placid 
appearance  was  greatly  marred  by  a  stupendous  railroad  bridge, 
over  which  trains  of  cars  were  thundering  every  hour  in  the  day. 
But  tha  river  itself  was  flowing  on  in  serene  majesty,  as  it  had  been 
from  tne  time  "the  morning  stars  sang  together,"  and  as  it  will 
continue  to  flow  until  this  planet  goes  out  of  business. 

We  left  Cairo  on  the  cars  on  the  night  of  October  26th,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  our  military  service,  we  rode  in  passenger  coaches, 
which  was  another  piece  of  evidence  that  once  more  we  were  in  that 
part  of  the  world  that  we  uniformly  spoke  of  as  "God's  Country." 
I  remember  an  incident  that  occurred  during  our  ride  that  night 
that  gave  us  all  the  benefit  of  a  hearty  laugh.  There  was  (and  is 
yet)  a  station  on  the  Illinois  Central,  in  Jackson  county,  Illinois, 
by  the  name  of  "Makanda."  It  was  some  time  after  midnight  when 
we  neared  this  station,  the  boys  were  sprawled  out  on  their  seats, 
and  trying  to  doze.  The  engine  gave  the  usual  loud  whistle  to  an 
nounce  a  stop,  the  front  door  of  our  coach  was  thrown  open,  and  a 
brakeman  with  a  strong  Hibernian  accent  called  out  in  thunder 
tones  what  sounded  exactly  like  "My-candy !"  as  here  written, — and 
with  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable.  There  were  several  soldiers  in 
the  coach  who  were  not  of  our  party,  also  going  home  on  furlough, 
and  one  of  these,  a  big  fellow  with  a  heavy  black  beard,  reared  up 
and  yelled  back  at  the  brakeman, — "Well,  who  the  hell  said  it  wasn't 
your  candy?"  and  the  boys  all  roared.  Many  years  later  I  passed 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  173 

through  that  town  on  the  cars,  and  the  brakeman  said  "My-candy," 
as  of  yore.  I  felt  a  devilish  impulse  to  make  the  same  response 
the  soldier  did  on  that  October  night  in  1863,  but  the  war  was  over, 
no  comrades  were  on  hand  to  back  me, — so  1  prudently  refrained. 
At  Sandoval  the  most  of  our  party  transferred  to  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  railroad,  (as  it  was  called  then,)  and  went  to  St.  Louis, 
reaching  there  on  the  afternoon  of  October  27th.  Here  all  except 
myself  left  on  the  Chicago,  Alton  and  St.  Louis  railroad,  for  differ 
ent  points  thereon,  and  from  which  they  would  make  their  way  to 
their  respective  homes.  There  was  no  railroad  running  through 
Jersey  county  at  this  time,  (except  a  bit  of  the  last  named  road 
about  a  mile  in  length  across  the  southeast  corner  of  the  county,) 
and  the  railroad  station  nearest  my  home  was  twenty  miles  away, 
so  I  had  to  resort  to  some  other  mode  of  travel.  I  went  down  to  the 
wharf  and  boarded  a  little  Illinois  river  steamboat, — the  Post-Boy, 
which  would  start  north  that  night,  paid  my  fare  to  Grafton,  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Illinois  river,  arranged  with  the  clerk  to  wake  me 
at  that  place,  and  then  turned  in.  But  the  clerk  did  not  have  to 
bother  on  my  account;  I  was  restless,  slept  but  little,  kept  a  close 
lookout,  and  when  the  whistle  blew  for  Grafton,  I  was  up  and  on 
deck  in  about  a  minute.  The  boat  rounded  in  at  the  landing,  and 
threw  out  a  plank  for  my  benefit, — the  lone  passenger  for  Grafton. 
Two  big,  burly  deck-hands,  rough  looking,  bearded  men,  took  me 
by  the  arm,  one  on  each  side,  and  carefully  and  kindly  helped  me 
ashore.  I  have  often  thought  of  that  little  incident.  In  those  days 
a  river  deck-hand  was  not  a  saint,  by  any  means.  As  a  rule,  he 
was  a  coarse,  turbulent,  and  very  profane  man,  but  these  two  fel 
lows  saw  that  I  was  a  little,  broken-down  boy-soldier,  painfully 
hobbling  along  on  a  stick,  and  they  took  hold  of  me  with  their 
strong,  brawny  hands,  and  helped  me  off  the  boat  with  as  much 
kindness  and  gentleness  as  if  I  had  been  the  finest  lady  in  the  land. 
I  was  now  only  five  miles  from  home,  and  proposed  to  make  the 
balance  of  my  journey  on  foot.  I  climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  river 
bank,  and  thence  made  my  way  to  the  main  and  only  street  the 
little  town  then  possessed,  and  took  "the  middle  of  the  road."  It 


174  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

was  perhaps  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  quiet,  starlight 
night,  and  the  people  of  the  village  were  all  apparently  yet  wrapped 
in  slumber.  No  signs  of  life  were  visible,  except  occasionally  a 
dog  would  run  out  in  a  front  yard  and  bark  at  me.  The  main  road 
from  Grafton,  at  that  time,  and  which  passed  near  rny  home,  wound 
along  the  river  bottom  a  short  distance,  and  then,  for  a  mile  or 
more,  ascended  some  high  hills  or  bluffs  north  of  the  town.  The 
ascent  of  these  bluffs  was  steep,  and  hence  the  walking  was 
fatiguing,  and  several  times  before  reaching  the  summit  where  the 
road  stretched  away  over  a  long,  high  ridge,  I  had  to  sit  down  and 
rest.  The  quails  were  now  calling  all  around  me,  and  the  chickens 
were  crowing  for  day  at  the  farm  houses,  and  their  notes  sounded 
so  much  like  home!  After  attaining  the  crest,  the  walking  was 
easier,  and  I  slowly  plodded  on,  rejoicing  in  the  sight  of  the  many 
familiar  objects  that  appeared  on  every  hand.  About  a  mile  or  so 
from  home,  I  left  the  main  highway,  and  followed  a  country  road 
that  led  to  our  hou^e,  where  I  at  last  arrived  about  nine  o'clock.  I 
had  not  written  to  my  parents  to  advise  them  of  my  coming,  for  it 
would  not  have  been  judicious,  in  mere  expectation  of  a  furlough, 
to  excite  hopes  that  might  be  disappointed,  and  after  it  was  issued 
and  delivered  to  me,  there  was  no  use  in  writing,  for  I  would  reach 
home  as  soon  as  a  letter.  So  my  father  and  mother,  and  the  rest 
of  the  family,  were  all  taken  completely  by  surprise  when  I  quietly 
walked  into  the  yard  of  the  old  home.  I  pass  over  any  detailed  ac 
count  of  our  meeting.  We,  like  others  of  that  time  and  locality, 
were  a  simple,  backwoods,  people,  with  nothing  in  the  nature  of 
gush  or  effervescence  in  our  dispositions.  I  know  that  I  was  glad 
to  see  my  parents,  and  the  rest,  and  they  were  all  unmistakably  glad 
to  see  me,  and  we  manifested  our  feelings  in  a  natural,  homely  way, 
and  without  any  display  whatever  of  extravagant  emotions.  Greet 
ings  being  over,  about  the  first  inquiry  was  whether  I  had  yet  had 
any  breakfast,  and  my  answer  being  in  the  negative,  a  splendid 
old-time  breakfast  was  promptly  prepared.  But  rny  mother  was 
keenly  disappointed  at  my  utter  lack  of  appetite.  I  just  couldn't 
eat  hardly  a  bit,  and  invented  some  sort  of  an  excuse,  and  said  I'd 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  175 

do  better  in  the  future,  but,  somehow,  right  then,  I  wasn't  hungry, 
which  was  true.  However,  this  instance  of  involuntary  absti 
nence  was  fully  made  up  for  later. 

While  on  my  furlough  I  went  with  my  father  in  the  farm 
wagon  occasionally  to  Grafton,  and  Jerseyville,  and  even  once  to 
Alton,  twenty  miles  away,  but  the  greater  part  of  the  time  was 
spent  at  the  farm,  and  around  the  old  home,  and  in  the  society  of 
the  family.  I  reckon  I  rambled  over  every  acre  of  the  farm,  and 
besides,  took  long  walks  in  the  woods  of  the  adjacent  country,  for 
miles  around.  The  big,  gushing  Sansom  Spring,  about  half  a  mile 
from  home,  was  a  spot  associated  with  many  happy  recollections. 
I  would  go  there,  lie  flat  on  the  ground,  and  take  a  copious  drink  of 
the  pure,  delicious  water,  then  stroll  through  the  woods  down  San 
som  branch  to  its  confluence  with  Otter  creek,  thence  down  the 
creek  to  the  Twin  Springs  that  burst  out  at  the  base  of  a  ridge1 
on  our  farm,  just  a  few  feet  below  a  big  sugar  maple,  from  here  on 
to  the  ruins  of  the  old  grist  mill  my  father  operated  in  the  latter 
'40s,  and  then  still  farther  down  the  creek  to  the  ancient  grist  mill 
(then  still  standing)  of  the  old  pioneer,  Hiram  White.  Here  I 
would  cross  to  the  south  bank  of  the  creek  and  make  my  way  home 
up  through  Limestone,  or  the  Sugar  Hollow.  From  my  earliest 
youth  I  always  loved  to  ramble  in  the  woods,  and  somehow  these 
around  the  old  home  now  looked  dearer  and  more  beautiful  to  me 
than  they  ever  had  before. 

The  last  time  I  ever  saw  my  boyhood  home  was  in  August, 
1894.  It  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and  didn't  look 
natural.  And  all  the  old-time  natural  conditions  in  that  locality 
were  greatly  changed.  The  flow  of  water  from  Sansom  Spring 
was  much  smaller  than  what  it  had  been  in  the  old  days,  and  only 
a  few  rods  below  the  spring  it  sunk  into  the  ground  and  disap 
peared.  The  big,  shady  pools  along  Sansom  branch  where  I  had 
gone  swimming  when  a  boy,  and  from  which  I  had  caught  many  a 
string  of  perch  and  silversides,  were  now  dry,  rocky  holes  in  the 
ground,  and  the  branch  in  general  was  dry  as  a  bone.  And  Ot 
ter  Creek,  which  at  different  places  where  it  ran  through  our  farm 


170  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

had  once  contained  long  reaches  of  water  six  feet  deep  and  over, 
had  now  shrunk  to  a  sickly  rivulet  that  one  could  step  across  almost 
anywhere  in  that  vicinity.  And  the  grand  primeval  forest  which 
up  to  about  the  close  of  the  war,  at  least,  had  practically  covered 
the  country  for  many  miles  in  the  vicinity  of  my  old  home,  had  now 
all  been  cut  down  and  destroyed,  and  the  naked  surface  of  the 
earth  was  baking  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  It  is  my  opinion,  and  is 
stated  for  whatever  it  may  be  worth,  that  the  wholesale  destruction 
of  the  forests  of  that  region  had  much  to  do  with  the  drying  up  of 
the  streams. 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  the  boy  on  furlough. 

Shortly  before  leaving  Little  Rock  for  home,  Capt.  Keeley  had 
confidentially  informed  me  that  if  the  military  situation  in  Ar 
kansas  continued  quiet,  it  would  be  all  right  for  me  before  my  fur 
lough  expired  to  procure  what  would  effect  a  short  extension  there 
of,  and  he  explained  to  me  the  modus  operandi.  Including  the  un 
avoidable  delays,  over  a  third  of  my  thirty  days  had  been  consumed 
in  making  the  trip  home,  and  the  return  journey  would  doubtless 
require  about  the  same  time.  I  therefore  thought  it  would  be  justi 
fiable  to  obtain  an  extension,  if  possible.  My  health  was  rapidly 
growing  better,  the  rheumatism  was  nearly  gone — but  there  was 
still  room  for  improvement.  I  had  closely  read  the  newspapers 
in  order  to  keep  posted  on  the  military  status  in  the!  vicinity  of 
Little  Rock,  and  had  learned  from  them  that  the  troops  were  build 
ing  winter  quarters,  and  that  in  general,  "All  was  quiet  along  the 
Arkansas."  So,  on  November  9th,  I  went  to  Dr.  J.  H.  Hesser,  a 
respectable  physician  of  Otterville,  told  him  my  business,  and  said 
that  if  his  judgment  would  warrant  it,  I  would  be  glad  to  obtain 
from  him  a  certificate  that  would  operate  to  extend  my  furlough 
for  twenty  days.  He  looked  at  me,  asked  a  few  questions,  and  then 
wrote  and  gave  me  a  brief  paper  which  set  forth  in  substance  that, 
in  his  opinion  as  a  physician,  I  would  not  be  able  for  duty  sooner 
than  December  5th,  1863,  that  being  a  date  twenty  days  subsequent 
to  the  expiration  of  my  furlough.  I  paid  Dr.  Hesser  nothing  for  the 
certificate,  for  he  did  not  ask  it,  but  said  that  he  gave  it  to  me  as 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  177 

a  warranted  act  of  kindness  to  a  deserving  soldier.  (In  September 
of  the  following  year  Dr.  Hesser  enlisted  in  Co.  C  of  our  regiment 
as  a  recruit,  and  about  all  the  time  he  was  with  us  acted  as  hos 
pital  steward  of  the  regiment,  which  position  he  filled  ably  and 
satisfactorily.)  But  I  did  not  avail  myself  of  all  my  aforesaid  ex 
tension.  I  knew  it  would  be  better  to  report  at  company  head 
quarters  before  its  expiration  than  after,  so  my  arrangements 
were  made  to  start  back  on  November  16th.  Some  hours  before 
sunrise  that  morning,  I  bade  good-by  to  mother  and  the  children, 
and  father  and  I  pulled  out  in  the  farm  wagon  for  our  nearest 
railroad  station,  which  was  Alton,  and,  as  heretofore  stated,  twenty 
miles  away,  where  we  arrived  in  ample  time  for  my  train.  We 
drove  into  a  back  street  and  unhitched  the  team — the  faithful  old 
mules,  Bill  and  Tom,  tied  them  to  the  wagon  and  fed  them,  and  then 
walked  to  the  depot.  The  train  came  in  due  season,  and  stopped 
opposite  the  depot  platform,  where  father  and  I  were  stand 
ing.  We  faced  each  other,  and  I  said,  "Good-bye,  father;"  he 
responded,  "Good-bye,  Leander,  take  care  of  yourself."  We 
shook  hands,  then  he  instantly  turned  and  walked  away,  and  I 
boarded  the  train.  That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  And  yet  we  both 
knew  more  in  regard  to  the  dangers  and  perils  that  environ  the 
life  of  a  soldier  in  time  of  war  than  we  did  on  the  occasion  of  the 
parting  at  Jerseyville  nearly  two  years  ago — hence  we  fully  realized 
that  this  farewell  might  be  the  last.  Nor  did  this  manner  spring 
from  indifference,  or  lack  of  sensibility;  it  was  simply  the  way  of 
the  plain  unlettered  backwoods  people  of  those  days.  Nearly  thir 
ty-five  years  later  the  "whirligig  of  time"  evolved  an  incident  which 
clearly  brought  home  to  me  a  vivid  idea  of  what  must  have  been 
my  father's  feelings  on  this  occasion.  The  Spanish-American  war 
began  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  1898,  and  on  the  30th  of  that 
month,  Hubert,  my  oldest  son,  then  a  lad  not  quite  nineteen  years 
old,  enlisted  in  Co.  A  of  the  22nd  Kansas  Infantry,  a  regiment 
raised  for  service  in  that  war.  On  May  28th  the  regiment  was 
sent  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  was  stationed  at  Camp  Alger,  near 
the  city.  In  the  early  part  of  August  it  appeared  that  there  was 


178  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

a  strong  probability  that  the  regiment,  with  others  at  Washing 
ton,  would  soon  be  sent  to  Cuba  or  Porto  Rico.  I  knew  that  meant 
lighting,  to  say  nothing  of  the  camp  diseases  liable  to  prevail  in 
that  latitude  at  that  season  of  the  year.  So  my  wife  and  I  con 
cluded  to  go  to  Washington  and  have  a  little  visit  with  Hubert  be 
fore  he  left  for  the  seat  of  war.  We  arrived  at  the  capital  on  Aug 
ust  5th,  and  found  the  regiment  then  in  camp  near  the  little  village 
of  Clifton,  Virginia,  about  twenty-six  miles  southwest  of  Wash 
ington.  We  had  a  brief  but  very  enjoyable  visit  with  Hubert,  who 
was  given  a  pass,  and  stayed  a  few  days  with  us  in  the  city.  But 
the  time  soon  came  for  us  to  separate,  and  on  the  day  of  our  de 
parture  for  home  Hubert  went  with  us  to  the  depot  of  the  Baltimore 
and  Ohio  railroad,  where  his  mother  and  I  bade  him  good-by.  Then 
there  came  to  me,  so  forcibly,  the  recollection  of  the  parting  with 
my  father  at  the  Alton  depot  in  November,  1863,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  think  I  fully  appreciated  what  must  have  been  his  feelings 
on  that  occasion. 

But,  (referring  to  the  Washington  incident,)  it  so  happened 
that  on  the  day  my  wife  and  I  left  that  city  for  home,  or  quite 
soon  thereafter,  it  was  officially  announced  that  a  suspension  of 
hostilities  had  been  agreed  on  between  Spain  and  the  United  States. 
This  ended  the  war,  and  consequently  Hubert's  regiment  was  not 
sent  to  the  Spanish  islands.  I  will  now  resume  my  own  story. 

My  route  from  Alton,  and  method  of  conveyance,  on  returning 
to  the  regiment,  were  the  same,  with  one  or  two  slight  variations, 
as  those  in  going  home,  and  the  return  trip  was  uneventful.  But 
there  were  no  delays,  the  boat  ran  day  and  night,  and  the  journey 
was  made  in  remarkably  quick  time.  I  arrived  at  Little  Rock  on  the 
evening  of  November  20th,  only  five  days  over  my  furlough, — and 
with  a  twenty-day  extension  to  show  for  that,  reported  promptly  to 
Capt.  Keeley,  and  delivered  to  him  the  certificate  given  me  by  Dr. 
Hesser.  Keeley  pronounced  the  paper  satisfactory,  and  further 
said  it  would  have  been  all  right  if  I  had  taken  the  benefit  of  the 
entire  twenty  days.  However,  it  somehow  seemed  to  me  that  he 
really  was  pleased  to  see  that  I  had  not  done  so,  but  hurried  back  fif- 


LEANDER  STILLWELL 
Co.  D,  61st  Illinois  Infantry,  December,  1863. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  179 

teen  days  ahead  of  time.  After  a  brief  conversation  with  him 
about  the  folks  at  home,  and  matters  and  things  there  in  general, 
he  treated  me  to  a  most  agreeable  surprise.  He  stepped  to  the  com 
pany  office  desk,  and  took  therefrom  a  folded  paper  which  he  hand 
ed  to  me  with  the  remark :  'There,  Stillwell,  is  something  I  think 
will  please  you."  I  unfolded  and  glanced  at  it,  and  saw  that  it 
was  a  non-commissioned  officer's  warrant,  signed  by  Major  Grass 
as  commanding  officer  of  the  regiment,  and  countersigned  by 
Lieut.  A.  C.  Haskins  as  adjutant,  appointing  me  First  Sergeant  of 
Co.  D.  The  warrant  was  dated  November  4th,  but  recited  that  the 
appointment  took  effect  from  September  1st,  preceding.  As  be 
fore  stated,  Enoch  Wallace  was  our  original  first  sergeant,  and  as 
he  was  promoted  to  second  lieutenant  on  September  3,  1863,  his  ad 
vancement  left  his  old  position  vacant,  and  his  mantle  had  now 
fallen  on  me.  I  was  deeply  gratified  with  this  appointment,  and 
really  was  not  expecting  it,  as  there  were  two  other  duty  sergeants 
who  outranked  me,  and  in  appointing  me  1  was  promoted  over  their 
heads.  However,  they  took  it  in  good  part,  and  remained  my 
friends,  as  they  alway^  had  been.  And  the  plain  truth  is,  too, 
which  may  have  reconciled  these  sergeants  somewhat,  the  position 
of  first  or  orderly  sergeant,  as  we  usually  called  it,  was  not  an 
enviable  one,  by  any  means.  His  duties  were  incessant,  involving 
responsibility,  and  frequently  were  very  trying.  He  had  to  be 
right  with  his  company  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  it  was  not  pru 
dent  for  him  to  absent  himself  from  camp  for  even  ten  minutes 
without  the  consent  of  his  company  commander,  and  temporarily 
appointing  a  duty  sergeant  to  act  in  his  place  while  away.  Among 
his  multifarious  duties  may  be  mentioned  the  following:  Calling 
the  roll  of  the  company  morning  and  evening,  and  at  such  other 
hours  as  might  be  required ;  attending  sick  calls  with  the  sick ,  and 
carefully  making  a  note  of  those  excused  from  duty  by  the  sur 
geon;  making  out  and  signing  the  company  morning  report;  pro 
curing  the  signature  of  the  company  commander  thereto,  and  then 
delivering  it  to  the  adjutant;  forming  the  company  on  its  parade 
ground  for  dress  parade,  drills,  marches,  and  the  like ;  making  the 


180  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

details  of  the  men  required  from  his  company  for  the  various  kinds 
of  guard  and  fatigue  duty ;  drawing  rations  for  the  company,  and 
distributing  them  among  the  various  messes;  seeing  to  it  that  the 
company  grounds  (when  in  camp)  were  properly  policed  every 
morning; — and  just  scores  of  little  matters  of  detail  that  were  oc 
curring  all  the  time.  It  was  a  very  embarrassing  incident  when 
sometimes  a  boy  who  was  a  good  soldier  was,  without  permission, 
absent  at  roll  call.  He  might  have  strolled  up  town,  or  to  a  neigh 
boring  camp  to  see  an  old-time  friend,  and  stayed  too  long.  On 
such  occurrences  I  would,  as  a  general  rule,  pass  rapidly  from  his 
name  to  the  next — and  just  report  the  boy  present,  and  later  talk  to 
him  privately  and  tell  him  not  to  let  it  happen  again.  It  is  true, 
sometimes  an  aggravated  case  occurred  when,  in  order  to  maintain 
discipline,  a  different  course  had  to  be  pursued,  but  not  often. 
Speaking  generally,  I  will  say  that  it  was  bad  policy  for  the  orderly 
to  be  running  to  the  captain  about  every  little  trouble  or  grievance. 
The  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  take  the  responsibility  and  act  on 
his  own  judgment,  and  depend  on  the  captain  to  back  him  {as  he 
almost  invariably  would)  if  the  affair  came  to  a  "show-down." 
Beginning  as  far  back  as  the  summer  of  1862,  I  had  frequently 
temporarily  acted  as  orderly  sergeant,  for  weeks  at  a  time,  and  so 
possessed  a  fair  amount  of  experience  when  I  entered  on  the  duties 
of  the  position  under  a  permanent  appointment.  But  my  long,  soli 
tary  rambles  out  in  the  woods,  beyond  the  lines,  were  at  an  end, 
and  that  was  a  matter  of  more  regret  to  me  than  anything  else 
connected  with  the  office  of  orderly  sergeant.  While  on  this  topic 
I  will  remark  that  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  men  who  had 
the  "softest  snaps"  of  any  in  a  regiment  of  infantry  were  the  lieu 
tenants  of  the  respective  companies.  The  first  lieutenant  had  no 
company  cares  or  responsibilities  whatever,  unless  the  captain  was 
absent,  or  sick  in  quarters,  and  the  second  lieutenant  was  likewise 
exempt,  unless  the  captain  and  first  lieutenant  were  both  absent, 
or  sick.  Of  course  there  were  duties  that  devolved  on  the  lieuten 
ants  from  time  to  time,  such  as  drilling  the  men,  serving  as  officer 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  181 

of  the  guard,  and  other  matters,  but  when  those  jobs  were  done, 
they  could  just  "go  and  play,"  without  a  particle  of  care  or  anxiety 
about  the  services  of  the  morrow. 


182  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


LITTLE     ROCK.— WINTER     OF     1863-4.— RE-ENLIST     FOR 
THREE  YEARS  MORE. 

When  I  returned  to  Little  Rock  from  my  absence  on  furlough, 
the  regiment  was  found  installed  in  cosy,  comfortable  quarters  of 
pine  log  cabins.  There  were  extensive  pine  forests  near  Little 
Rock,  the  boys  were  furnished  teams  and  axes  to  facilitate  the 
work,  and  cut  and  shaped  the  logs  for  the  cabin  walls,  and  roofed 
them  with  lumber,  boards  or  shingles,  which  they  procured  in  va 
rious  ways.  The  walls  were  chinked  and  daubed  with  mud,  and 
each  cabin  was  provided  with  an  ample,  old-fashioned  fire-place, 
with  a  rock  or  stick  chimney.  As  wood  was  close  at  hand,  and  in 
abundance,  there  was  no  difficulty  whatever  in  keeping  the  cabins 
warm.  But  I  will  remark  here  that  of  all  the  mean  wood  to  burn, 
a  green  pine  log  is  about  the  worst.  It  is  fully  as  bad  aa  green 
elm,  or  sycamore.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  dry  wood  to  mix  with 
the  green,  and  the  green  logs  had  this  virtue:  that  after  the  fire 
had  once  taken  hold  of  them  they  would  last  a  whole  night.  The 
winter  of  1863-4  was  remarkably  cold,  and  to  this  day  is  remem 
bered  by  the  old  soldiers  as  "the  cold  winter."  On  the  last  day  of 
1863  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  occurred  at  Little  Rock,  and  the  first  day 
of  the  new  year,  and  several  days  thereafter,  were  bitterly  cold. 
But  the  weather  did  not  cause  the  troops  in  our  immediate  locality 
any  special  suffering,  so  far  as  I  know,  or  ever  heard.  All  of  us 
not  on  picket  were  just  as  comfortable  as  heart  could  wish  in  our 
tight,  well-warmed  cabins,  and  those  on  guard  duty  were  permitted 
to  build  rousing  fires  and  so  got  along  fairly  well.  Big  fires  on  the 
picket  line  would  not  have  been  allowed  if  any  enemy  had  been  in 
our  vicinity,  but  there  were  none ;  hence  it  was  only  common  sense 
to  Jet  the  pickets  have  fires  and  keep  as  comfortable  as  circum 
stances  would  permit.  It  was  probably  on  account  of  the  severe 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  183 

weather  that  active  military  operations  in  our  locality  were  that 
winter  practically  suspended.  There  were  a  few  cavalry  affairs  at 
outlying  posts,  but  none  of  any  material  importance. 

The  most  painful  sight  that  I  saw  during  the  war  was  here 
at  Little  Rock  this  winter.  It  was  the  execution,  by  hanging,  on 
January  8,  1864,  of  a  Confederate  spy,  by  the  name  of  David  0. 
Dodds.  He  was  a  mere  boy,  seemingly  not  more  than  nineteen  or 
twenty  years  old.  There  was  no  question  as  to  his  guilt.  When 
arrested  there  was  found  on  his  person  a  memorandum  book  con 
taining  information,  written  in  telegraphic  characters,  in  regard 
to  all  troops,  batteries,  and  other  military  matters  at  Little  Rock. 
He  was  tried  by  a  court  martial,  and  sentenced  to  the  mode  of 
death  always  inflicted  on  a  spy,  namely,  by  hanging.  I  suppose 
that  the  military  authorities  desired  to  render  his  death  as  im 
pressive  as  possible,  in  order  to  deter  others  from  engaging  in  a 
business  so  fraught  with  danger  to  our  armies;  therefore,  on  the 
day  fixed  for  carrying  out  the  sentence  of  the  court,  all  our  troops 
in  Little  Rock  turned  out  under  arms  and  marched  to  the  place  of 
execution.  It  was  in  a  large  field  near  the  town;  a  gallows  had 
been  erected  in  the  center  of  this  open  space,  and  the  troops  formed 
around  it  in  the  form  of  an  extensive  hollow  square,  and  stood  at 
parade  rest.  The  spy  rode  through  the  lines  to  the  gallows  in  an 
open  ambulance,  sitting  on  his  coffin.  I  happened  to  be  not  far 
from  the  point  where  he  passed  through,  and  saw  him  plainly. 
For  one  so  young,  he  displayed  remarkable  coolness  and  courage 
when  in  the  immediate  presence  of  death.  The  manner  of  his  ex 
ecution  was  wretchedly  bungled,  in  some  way,  and  the  whole  thing 
was  to  me  indescribably  repulsive.  In  the  crisis  of  the  affair  there 
was  a  sudden  'clang  of  military  arms  and  accouterments  in  the 
line  not  far  from  me,  and  looking  in  that  direction  I  saw  that  a 
soldier  in  the  front  rank  had  fainted  and  fallen  headlong  to  the 
ground.  I  didn't  faint,  but  the  spectacle,  for  the  time  being,  well- 
nigh  made  me  sick.  It  is  true  that  from  time  immemorial  the  pun 
ishment  of  a  convicted  spy  has  been  death  by  hanging.  The  safety 
of  whole  armies,  even  the  fate  of  a  nation,  may  perhaps  depend  on 


184  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

the  prompt  and  summary  extinction  of  the  life  of  a  spy.  As  long 
as  he  is  alive  he  may  possibly  escape,  or,  even  if  closely  guarded, 
may  succeed  in  imparting  his  dangerous  intelligence  to  others  who 
will  transmit  it  in  his  stead ;  hence  no  mercy  can  be  shown.  But  in 
spite  of  all  that,  this  event  impressed  me  as  somehow  being  un 
speakably  cruel  and  cold-blooded.  On  one  side  were  thousands  of 
men  with  weapons  in  their  hands,  coolly  looking  on;  on  the  other 
was  one  lone,  unfortunate  boy.  My  conscience  has  never  troubled 
me  for  anything  I  may  have  done  on  the  firing  line,  in  time  of 
battle.  There  were  the  other  fellows  in  plain  sight,  shooting,  and 
doing  all  in  their  power  to  kill  us.  It  was  my  duty  to  shoot  at 
them,  aim  low,  and  kill  some  of  them,  if  possible,  and  I  did  the 
best  I  could,  and  have  no  remorse  whatever.  But  whenever  my 
memory  recalls  the  choking  to  death  of  that  boy,  (for  that  is  what 
was  done),  I  feel  bad,  and  don't  like  to  write  or  think  about  it. 
But,  for  fear  of  being  misunderstood,  it  will  be  repeated  that  the 
fate  of  a  spy,  when  caught,  is  death.  It  is  a  military  necessity. 
The  other  side  hanged  our  spies,  with  relentless  severity,  and  were 
justified  in  so  doing  by  laws  and  usages  of  war.  Even  the  great 
and  good  Washington  approved  of  the  hanging  of  the  British  spy, 
Maj.  Andre,  and  refused  to  commute  the  manner  of  his  execution 
to  being  shot,  although  Andre  made  a  personal  appeal  to  him  to 
grant  him  that  favor,  in  order  that  he  might  die  the  death  of  a 
soldier.  The  point  with  me  is  simply  this :  I  don't  want  person 
ally  to  have  anything  to  do,  in  any  capacity,  with  hanging  a  man, 
and  don't  desire  even  to  be  in  eye-sight  of  such  a  gruesome  thing, 
and  voluntarily  never  have.  However,  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  be  an  in 
voluntary  witness  of  two  more  military  executions  while  in  the 
service.  I  will  speak  of  them  now,  and  then  be  through  with  this 
disagreeable  subject.  On  March  18th,  1864,  two  guerrillas  were 
hanged  in  the  yard  of  the  penitentiary  at  Little  Rock,  by  virtue  of 
the  sentence  of  a  court  martial,  and  my  regiment  acted  as  guard 
at  the  execution.  We  marched  into  the  penitentiary  inclosure,  and 
formed  around  the  scaffold  in  hollow  square.  As  soon  as  this  had 
been  dene,  a  door  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  penitentiary  was 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  185 

swung  open,  and  the  two  condemned  men  marched  out,  pinioned 
side  by  side,  and  surrounded  by  a  small  guard.  The  culprits  were 
apparently  somewhere  between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  They 
ascended  the  scaffold,  were  placed  with  their  feet  on  the  trap,  the 
nooses  were  adjusted,  the  trap  was  sprung, — and  it  was  all  over. 
The  crimes  of  which  these  men  had  been  convicted  were  peculiarly 
atrocious.  They  were  not  members  of  any  organized  body  of  the 
Confederate  army,  but  guerrillas  pure  and  simple.  It  was  con 
clusively  established  on  their  trial  that  they,  with  some  associates, 
had,  in  cold  blood,  murdered  by  hanging  several  men  of  that 
/icinity,  private  citizens  of  the  State  of  Arkansas,  for  no  other 
cause  or  reason  than  the  fact  that  the  victinib  were  Union  men. 
In  some  cases  the  murdered  men  had  been  torn  from  their  beds  at 
night,  and  hanged  in  their  own  door-yards,  in  the  presence  of  their 
well-nigh  distracted  wives  and  children.  There  can  be  no  ques 
tion  that  these  two  unprincipled  assassins  richly  merited  their 
fate,  and  hence  it  was  impossible  to  entertain  for  them  any  feel 
ing  of  sympathy.  Nevertheless,  I  stand  by  my  original  proposi 
tion,  that  to  see  any  man  strung  up  like  a  dog,  and  hanged  in  cold 
blood,  is  a  nauseating  and  debasing  spectacle. 

In  January,  1864,  while  we  were  at  Little  Rock,  the  "veteran 
izing"  project,  as  it  was  called,  was  submitted  to  the  men.  That  is 
to  say,  we  were  asked  to  enlist  for  "three  years  more,  or  endurin' 
the  war."  Sundry  inducements  for  this  were  held  out  to  the  men, 
but  the  one  which,  at  the  time,  had  the  most  weight,  was  the 
promise  of  a  thirty-days  furlough  for  each  man  who  re-enlisted. 
The  men  in  general  responded  favorably  to  the  proposition,  and 
enough  of  the  61st  re-enlisted  to  enable  the  regiment  to  retain  its 
organization  to  the  end  of  the  war.  On  the  evening  of  February 
1st,  with  several  others  of  Co.  D,  I  walked  down  to  the  adjutant's 
tent,  and  "went  in"  for  three  years  more.  I  think  that  no  better 
account  of  this  re-enlistment  business  can  now  be  given  by  me  than 
by  here  inserting  a  letter  I  wrote  on  December  22nd,  1894,  as  a 
slight  tribute  to  the  memory  of  our  acting  regimental  commander 
in  February,  1864,  Maj.  Daniel  Grass.  He  was  later  promoted 


186  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

to  lieutenant-colonel,  and  after  the  war,  came  to  Kansas,  where, 
for  many  years,  he  was  a  prominent  lawyer  and  politician.  On 
the  evening  of  December  18th,  1894,  while  he  was  crossing  a  rail 
road  track  in  the  town  where  he  lived,  (Coffeyville,  Kansas,)  he 
was  struck  by  a  railroad  engine,  and  sustained  injuries  from 
which  he  died  on  December  21st,  at  the  age  of  a  little  over  seventy 
years.  A  few  days  thereafter  the  members  of  the  bar  of  the 
county  held  a  memorial  meeting  in  his  honor,  which  I  was  invited  to 
attend.  I  was  then  judge  of  the  Kansas  7th  Judicial  District,  and* 
my  judicial  duties  at  the  time  were  such  that  I  could  not  go,  and 
hence  was  compelled  to  content  myself  by  writing  a  letter,  which 
was  later  published  in  the  local  papers  of  the  county,  and  which 
reads  as  follows: 

"Erie,  Kansas, 
"December  22,  1894. 
"Hon.  J.  D.  McCue, 

"Independence,  Kansas. 
"My  Dear  Judge : 

"I  received  this  evening  yours  of  the  20th  informing  me  of  the 
death  of  my  old  comrade  and  regimental  commander  during  the 
war  for  the  Union,  Col.  Dan  Grass.  I  was  deeply  moved  by  this 
sad  intelligence,  and  regret  that  I  did  not  learn  of  his  death  in 
time  to  attend  his  funeral.  I  wish  I  could  be  present  at  the  memo 
rial  meeting  of  the  bar  next  Monday  that  you  mention,  but  I  have 
other  engagements  for  that  day  that  cannot  be  deferred.  It  af 
fords  me,  however,  a  mournful  pleasure  to  comply  with  your  re 
quest  suggesting  that  I  write  a  few  words  in  the  nature  of  a  trib 
ute  to  our  departed  friend  and  comrade,  to  be  read  at  this  meet 
ing  of  the  bar.  But  I  am  fearful  that  I  shall  perform  this  duty 
very  unsatisfactorily.  There  are  so  many  kind  and  good  things 
that  I  would  like  to  say  about  him  that  throng  my  memory  at  this 
moment  that  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin. 

"I  served  in  the  same  regiment  with  Col.  Grass  from  January 
7th,  1862,  to  December  15th,  1864.  On  the  last  named  day  he  was 
taken  prisoner  by  the  rebels  in  an  engagement  near  Murfreesboro, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  187 

Tenn.  He  was  subsequently  exchanged,  but  by  that  time  the  war 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  he  did  not  rejoin  us  again  in  the  field. 
In  May,  1865,  he  was  mustered  out  of  the  service.  During  his  term 
of  service  with  us,  (nearly  three  years,)  I  became  very  well  ac 
quainted  with  him,  and  learned  to  admire  and  love  him  as  a  man 
and  a  soldier.  He  was  temperate  in  his  habits,  courteous  and 
kind  to  the  common  soldiers,  and  as  brave  a  man  in  action  as  I 
ever  saw.  He  was,  moreover,  imbued  with  the  most  fervid  and  in 
tense  patriotism.  The  war  with  him  was  one  to  preserve  the  Re 
public  from  destruction,  and  his  creed  was  that  the  government 
should  draft,  if  necessary,  every  available  man  in  the  North,  and 
spend  every  dollar  of  the  wealth  of  the  country,  sooner  than  suf 
fer  the  rebellion  to  succeed,  and  the  Nation  to  be  destroyed.  I 
think  the  most  eloquent  speech  I  ever  heard  in  my  life  was  one  de 
livered  by  Col.  Grass  to  his  regiment  at  Little  Rock,  Arkansas,  in 
February,  1864.  The  plan  was  then  in  progress  to  induce  the 
veteran  troops  in  the  field  to  re-enlist  for  three  years  more.  We 
boys  called  it  'veteranizing.'  For  various  reasons  it  did  not  take 
well  in  our  regiment.  Nearly  all  of  us  had  been  at  the  front  with 
out  a  glimpse  of  our  homes  and  friends  for  over  two  years.  We 
had  undergone  a  fair  share  of  severe  fighting  and  toilsome  march 
ing  and  the  other  hardships  of  a  soldier's  life,  and  we  believed  we 
were  entitled  to  a  little  rest  when  our  present  term  should  expire. 
Hence,  re-enlisting  progressed  slowly,  and  it  looked  as  if,  so  far  as 
the  61st  Illinois  was  concerned,  that  the  undertaking  was  going 
to  be  a  failure.  While  matters  were  in  this  shape,  one  day  Col. 
Grass  caused  the  word  to  be  circulated  throughout  the  regiment 
that  he  would  make  us  a  speech  that  evening  at  dress  parade  on 
the  subject  of  'veteranizing.'  At  the  appointed  time  we  assembled 
on  the  parade  ground  with  fuller  ranks  than  usual,  everybody 
being  anxious  to  hear  what  'Old  Dan,'  as  the  boys  called  him,  would 
say.  After  the  customary  movements  of  the  parade  had  been  per 
formed,  the  Colonel  commanded,  'Parade,  Rest!'  and  without  fur 
ther  ceremony  commenced  his  talk.  Of  course  I  cannot  pretend, 
after  this  lapse  of  time,  to  recall  all  that  he  said.  I  remember  best 


188  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

his  manner  and  some  principal  statements,  and  the  effect  they  pro 
duced  on  us.     He  began  talking  to  us  like  a  father  would  talk  to  a 
lot  of  dissatisfied  sons.     He  told  us  that  he  knew  we  wanted  to  gc 
home;  that  we  were  tired  of  war  and  its  hardships;  that  we 
wanted  to  see  our  fathers  and  mothers,  and  'the  girls  we  left  be 
hind'  ;  that  he  sympathized  with  us,  and  appreciated  our  feelings. 
'But,  boys/  said  he,  'this  great  Nation  is  your  father,  and  has  a 
greater  claim  on  you  than  anybody  else  in  the  world.     This  grea' 
father  of  yours  is  fighting  for  his  life,  and  the  question  for  you  to 
determine  now  is  whether  you  are  going  to  stay  and  help  the  old 
man  out,  or  whether  you  are  going  to  sneak  home  and  sit  down  by 
the  chimney  corner  in  ease  and  comfort  while  your  comrades  by 
thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  are    marching,    struggling 
fighting,  and  dying  on  battle  fields  and  in  prison  pens  to  put  down 
this  wicked  rebellion,  and  save  the  old  Union.     Stand  by  the  old 
flag,  boys!     Let  us  stay  and  see  this  thing  out!     We're  going  to 
whip  'em  in  the  end  just  as  sure  as  God  Almighty  is  looking  down 
on  us  right  now,  and  then  we'll  all  go  home  together,  happy  and 
triumphant.     And  take  my  word  for  it,  in  after  years  it  will  be 
the  proudest  memory  of  your  lives,  to  be  able  to  say,  "I  stayed  with 
the  old  regiment  and  the  old  flag  until  the  last  gun  cracked  and  the 
war  was  over,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were  floating  in  triumph 
over  every  foot  of  the  land!'  ' 

"I  can  see  him  in  my  mind's  eye,  as  plain  as  if  it  were  yester 
day.  He  stood  firm  and  erect  on  his  feet  in  the  position  of  a  sol 
dier,  and  gestured  very  little,  but  his  strong,  sturdy  frame  fairly 
quivered  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings,  and  we  listened  in  the 
most  profound  silence. 

"It  was  a  raw,  cold  evening,  and  the  sun,  angry  and  red,  was 
sinking  behind  the  pine  forests  that  skirted  the  ridges  west  of  our 
camp  when  the  Colonel  concluded  his  address.  It  did  not,  I  think, 
exceed  more  than  ten  minutes.  The  parade  was  dismissed,  and  the 
companies  marched  back  to  their  quarters.  As  I  put  my  musket 
on  its  rack  and  unbuckled  my  cartridge  box,  I  said  to  one  of  my 
comrades,  'I  believe  the  old  Colonel  is  right ;  I  am  going  right  now 


(Late  Lieut.  Colonel,  61st  Illinois  Infantry.) 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  189 

down  to  the  adjutant's  tent  and  re-enlist;"  and  go  I  did,  but  not 
alone.  Down  to  the  adjutant's  tent  that  evening  streamed  the  boys 
by  the  score  and  signed  the  rolls,  and  the  fruit  of  that  timely  and 
patriotic  talk  that  Dan  Grass  made  to  us  boys  was  that  the  great 
majority  of  the  men  re-enlisted,  and  the  regiment  retained  its  or 
ganization  and  remained  in  the  field  until  the  end  of  the  war. 

"But  my  letter  is  assuming  rather  lengthy  proportions,  and  I 
must  hasten  to  a  close.  I  have  related  just  one  incident  in  the  life 
of  Col.  Grass  that  illustrates  his  spirit  of  patriotism  and  love  of 
country.  I  could  speak  of  many  more,  but  the  occasion  demands 
brevity.  Of  his  career  since  the  close  of  the  war,  in  civil  life  here 
in  Kansas,  there  are  others  better  qualified  to  speak  than  I  am. 
I  will  only  say  that  my  personal  relations  with  him  since  he  came 
to  this  State,  dating  away  back  in  the  early  seventies,  have  con 
tinued  to  be,  during  all  these  years,  what  they  were  in  the  trying 
and  perilous  days  of  the  war — of  the  most  friendly  and  fraternal 
character.  To  me,  at  least,  he  was  always  Col.  Dan  Grass,  my  regi 
mental  commander;  while  he,  as  I  am  happy  to  believe,  always 
looked  upon  and  remembered  me  simply  as  'Lee  Stillwell,  the  little 
sergeant  of  Company  D.' 

"I  remain  very  sincerely  your  friend, 

"L.  STILLWELL." 


190  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


LITTLE  ROCK.— EXPEDITIONS  TO  AUGUSTA  AND  SPRING 
FIELD.— MARCH,  APRIL  AND  MAY,  1864. 

In  the  spring  of  1864  it  was  determined  by  the  military  auth 
orities  to  undertake  some  offensive  operations  in  what  was  styled 
the  "Red  River  country,"  the  objective  point  being  Shreveport, 
Louisiana.  Gen.  N.  P.  Banks  was  to  move  with  an  army  from  New 
Orleans,  and  Gen.  Steele,  in  command  of  the  Department  of  Ar 
kansas,  was  to  co-operate  with  a  force  from  Little  Rock.  And  here 
my  regiment  sustained  what  I  regarded,  and  still  regard,  as  a 
piece  of  bad  luck.  It  was  not  included  in  this  moving  column,  but 
was  assigned  to  the  duty  of  serving  as  provost  guard  of  the  city  of 
Little  Rock  during  the  absence  of  the  main  army.  To  be  left  there 
in  that  capacity,  while  the  bulk  of  the  troops  in  that  department 
would  be  marching  and  fighting  was,  from  my  standpoint,  a  most 
mortifying  circumstance.  But  the  duty  that  devolved  on  us  had 
to  be  done  by  somebody,  and  soldiers  can  only  obey  orders.  Our 
officers  said  at  the  time  that  only  efficient  and  well-disciplined 
troops  were  entrusted  with  the  position  of  provost-guards  of  a  city 
the  size  of  Little  Rock,  and  hence  that  our  being  so  designated  was 
a  compliment  to  the  regiment.  That  sounded  .plausible,  and  it  may 
have  been  true,  probably  was,  but  I  didn't  like  the  job  a  bit.  It 
may,  however,  have  all  been  for  the  best,  as  this  Red  River  ex 
pedition,  especially  the  part  undertaken  by  Gen.  Banks,  was  a  dis 
astrous  failure.  Gen.  Steele  left  Little  Rock  about  March  23rd, 
with  a  force,  of  all  arms,  of  about  12,000  men,  but  got  no  further 
than  Camden,  Arkansas.  Gen.  Banks  was  defeated  by  the  Con 
federates  at  the  battle  of  Sabine  Cross-Roads,  in  Louisiana,  on 
April  8th,  andl  was  forced  to  retreat.  The  enemy  then  was  at 
liberty  to  concentrate  on  General  Steele,  and  so  he  likewise  was 
under  the  necessity  of  retreating,  and  scuttling  back  to  Little  Rock 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  191 

just  as  rapidly  as  possible.  But  on  this  retreat  he  and  his  men  did 
some  good,  hard  fighting,  and  stood  off  the  Confederates  effective 
ly.  About  the  first  intimation  we  in  Little  Rock  had  that  our  fel 
lows  were  coming  back  was  when  nearly  every  soldier  in  the  city 
that  was  able  to  wield  a  mattock  or  a  spade  was  detailed  for 
fatigue  duty  and  set  to  work  throwing  up  breastworks,  and  kept  at 
it,  both  day  and  night.  I  happened  to  see  Gen.  Steele  when  he 
rode  into  town  on  May  2nd,  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  and  he  look 
ed  tough.  He  had  on  a  battered  felt  hat,  with  a  drooping  brim,  an 
oil-cloth  "slicker/'  much  the  worse  for  wear,  the  ends  of  his  panta 
loons  were  stuck  in  his  boots,  and  he  was  just  splashed  and 
splattered  with  mud  from  head  to  foot.  But  he  sat  firm  and  erect 
in  his  saddle,  (he  was  a  magnificent  horseman,)  and  his  eyes  were 
flashing  as  if  he  had  plenty  of  fight  left  in  him  yet.  And  the 
rank  and  file  of  our  retreating  army  was  just  the  hardest  looking 
outfit  of  Federal  soldiers  that  I  saw  during  the  war,  at  any  time. 
The  most  of  them  looked  as  if  they  had  been  rolled  in  the  mud, 
numbers  of  them  were  barefoot,  and  I  also  saw  several  with  the 
legs  of  their  trousers  all  gone,  high  up,  socking  through  the  mud 
like  big  blue  cranes. 

Iri  view  of  the  feverish  haste  with  which  Little  Rock  had  been 
put  in  a  state  for  defensive  operations,  and  considering  also  all  the 
reports  in  circulation,  we  fully  expected  that  Price's  whole  army 
would  make  an  attack  on  us  almost  any  day.  But  the  Confederates 
had  been  so  roughly  handled  in  the  battle  of  Jenkins'  Ferry,  April 
30th,  on  the  Saline  river,  that  none  of  their  infantry  came  east  of 
that  river,  nor  any  of  their  cavalry  except  a  small  body,  which  soon 
retired.  The  whole  Confederate  army,  about  May  1st,  fell  back  to 
Camden,  and  soon,  all  was  again  quiet  along  the  Arkansas. 

I  will  now  go  back  about  two  weeks  in  order  to  give  an  ac 
count  of  a  little  expedition  our  regiment  took  part  in  when  Gen. 
Steele's  army  was  at  Camden. 

Late  on  the  evening  of  April  19th,  we  fell  in,  marched  to  the 
railroad  depot,  climbed  on  the  cars,  and  were  taken  that  night  to 
Devall's  Bluff.  Next  morning  we  embarked  on  the  steamboat 


192  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

"James  Raymond,"  and  started  up  White  river.  The  other  troops 
that  took  part  in  the  movement  were  the  3rd  Minnesota  Infantry 
and  a  detachment  of  the  8th  Missouri  Cavalry.  We  arrived  at 
the  town  of  Augusta,  (about  eighty  miles  by  water  from  Devall's 
Bluff,)  on  the  morning  of  the  21st.  It  was  a  little,  old,  dilapidated 
river  town,  largely  in  a  deserted  condition,  situated  on  low,  bot 
tom  land,  on  the  east  bank  of  White  river.  On  arriving  we  at 
once  debarked  from  the  boat,  and  all  our  little  force  marched  out 
a  mile  or  so  east  of  the  town,  where  we  halted,  and  formed  in  line 
of  battle  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  with  a  large  open  field  in  our 
front,  on  the  other  side  of  which  were  tall,  dense  woods.  As  there 
were  no  signs  or  indications  of  any  enemy  in  the  town,  and  every 
thing  around  was  so  quiet  and  sleepy,  I  couldn't  understand  what 
these  ominous  preparations  meant.  Happening  to  notice  the  old 
chaplain  a  short  distance  in  the  rear  of  our  company,  I  slipped  out 
of  ranks,  and  walked  back  to  him  for  the  purpose  of  getting  a 
pointer,  if  possible.  He  was  by  himself,  and  as  I  approached  him, 
seemed  to  be  looking  rather  serious.  He  probably  saw  inquiry  in 
my  eyes,  and  without  waiting  for  question  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hands  towards  the  woods  in  our  front,  and  said,  "0  Son  of  Jere 
miah!  Here  is  where  we  shall  give  battle  to  those  who  trouble 
Israel!"  "What!  What  is  that  you  say?"  said  I,  in  much  astonish 
ment.  "It  is  even  so,"  he  continued;  "the  Philistines  are  abroad 
in  the  land,  having  among  them,  as  they  assert,  many  valiant  men 
who  can  sling  stones  at  a  hair's  breadth  and  not  miss.  They  await 
us,  even  now,  in  the  forest  beyond.  But,  Son  of  Jeremiah,"  said 
he,  "if  the  uncircumcised  heathen  should  assail  the  Lord's  anointed, 
be  strong,  and  quit  yourself  like  a  man!"  "All  right,  Chaplain," 
I  responded ;  "I  have  forty  rounds  in  the  box,  and  forty  on  the  per 
son,  and  will  give  them  the  best  I  .have  in  the  shop.  But,  say! 
Take  care  of  my  watch,  will  you?  And,  should  anything  happen^ 
please  send  it  to  the  folks  at  home;" — and  handing  him  my  little 
old  silver  time-piece,  I  resumed  my  place  in  the  ranks.  After  what 
seemed  to  me  a  most  tiresome  wait,  we  finally  advanced,  preceded 
by  a  line  of  skirmishers.  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  woods  in  our 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  193 

front,  expecting  every  minute  to  see  burst  therefrom  puffs  of 
white  smoke,  followed  by  the  whiz  of  bullets  and  the  crash  of 
musketry,  but  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  Our  skirmishers 
entered  the  forest,  and  disappeared,  and  still  everything  remained 
quiet.  The  main  line  followed,  and  after  gaining  the  woods,  we 
discovered  plenty  of  evidence  that  they  had  quite  recently  been 
occupied  by  a  body  of  cavalry.  The  ground  was  cut  up  by  horses' 
tracks,  and  little  piles  of  corn  in  the  ear,  only  partly  eaten,  were 
scattered  around.  We  advanced  through  the  woods  and  swamps 
for  some  miles  and  scouted  around  considerably,  but  found  no 
enemy,  except  a  few  stragglers  that  were  picked  up  by  our  cavalry. 
We  left  Augusta  on  the  24th,  on  our  steamboat,  and  arrived  at 
Little  Rock  on  the  same  day.  I  met  the  chaplain  on  the  boat  while 
on  our  return,  and  remarked  to  him  that,-  "Those  mighty  men 
who  could  kill  a  jaybird  with  a  sling-shot  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off 
didn't  stay  to  see  the  show."  "No,"  he  answered;  "when  the  sons 
of  Belial  beheld  our  warlike  preparation,  their  hearts  melted,  and 
became  as  water;  they  gat  every  man  upon  his  ass,  and  speedily 
fled,  even  beyond  the  brook  which  is  called  Cache."  He  then  went 
on  to  tell  me  that  oh  our  arrival  at  Augusta  there  was  a  body  of 
Confederate  cavalry  near  there,  supposed  to  be  about  a  thousand 
strong,  under  the  command  of  a  General  McRae;  that  they  were 
bivouacked  in  the  woods  in  front  of  the  line  of  battle  we  formed, 
and  that  on  our  approach  they  had  scattered  and  fled.  The  enemy's 
force  really  exceeded  ours,  but,  as  a  general  proposition,  their 
cavalry  was  reluctant  to  attack  our  infantry,  in  a  broken  country, 
unless  they  could  accomplish  something  in  the  nature  of  a  surprise, 
or  otherwise  have  a  decided  advantage  at  the  start. 

On  May  16th  we  shifted  our  camp  to  Huntersville,  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Arkansas  river,  and  near  our  first  location.  We  thus 
abandoned  our  log  cabins,  and  never  occupied  them  again.  They 
were  now  getting  too  close  and  warm  for  comfort,  anyhow.  But 
they  had  been  mighty  good  friends  to  us  in  the  bitterly  cold  winter 
of  '63-4,  and  during  that  time  we  spent  many  a  cosy,  happy  day 
and  night  therein. 


194  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

On  May  19th  we  again  received  marching  orders,  and  the 
regiment  left  camp  that  night  on  the  cars,  and  went  to  Hicks' 
station,  28  miles  from  Little  Rock.  We  remained  here,  bivouack 
ing  in  the  woods,  until  the  22nd,  when,  at  3  o'clock  in  the  morning 
of  that  day,  we  took  up  the  line  of  march,  moving  in  a  northerly 
direction.  The  troops  that  composed  our  force  consisted  of  the 
61st,  54th,  and  106th  Illinois,  and  12th  Michigan  (infantry  regi 
ments),  a  battery  of  artillery,  and  some  detachments  of  cavalry; 
Brig.  Gen.  J.  R.  West  in  command.  We  arrived  at  the  town  of 
Austin,  18  miles  from  Hicks'  Station,  about  2  o'clock  on  the  after 
noon  of  the  22nd.  It  was  a  little  country  village,  situated  on  a 
rocky,  somewhat  elevated  ridge.  As  I  understand,  it  is  now  a 
station  on  the  Iron  Mountain  railroad,  which  has  been  built  since 
the  war.  I  reckon  if  in  May,  1864,  any  one  had  predicted  that 
some  day  a  railroad  would  be  built  and  in  operation  through  that 
insignificant  settlement  among  the  rocks  and  trees,  he  would  have 
been  looked  on  as  hardly  a  safe  person  to  be  allowed  to  run  at 
large. 

Co.  D  started  on  the  march  with  only  one  commissioned  of 
ficer,  Second  Lieutenant  Wallace.  I  have  forgotten  the  cause  of  the 
absence  of  Capt.  Keeley  and  Lieut.  Warren,  but  there  was  doubt 
less  some  good  reason.  On  the  first  day's  march  the  weather  was 
hot,  and  the  route  was  through  a  very  rough  and  broken  country. 
Wallace  was  overcome  by  heat,  and  had  to  fall  out,  and  wait  for  an 
ambulance.  In  consequence,  it  so  happened  that  when  we  reached 
Austin,  there  was  no  commissioned  officer  with  us,  and  I,  as  first 
sergeant,  was  in  command  of  the  company.  And  that  gave  rise 
to  an  incident  which,  at  the  time,  swelled  me  up  immensely.  On 
arriving  at  the  town,  the  regiment  halted  on  some  open  ground  in 
the  outskirts,  fell  into  line,  dressed  on  the  colors,  and  stood  at  or 
dered  arms.  Thereupon  the  adjutant  commanded,  "Commanding 
officers  of  companies,  to  the  front  and  center,  march!"  I  was 
completely  taken  by  surprise  by  this  command,  and  for  a  second  or 
two  stood,  dazed  and  uncertain.  But  two  or  three  of  the  boys 
spoke  up  at  once  and  said,  "You're  our  commanding  officer,  Still- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  195 

well;  go!"  The  situation  by  this  time  had  also  dawned  on  me,  so  I 
promptly  obeyed  the  command.  But  I  must  have  been  a  strange 
looking  "commanding  officer."  I  was  barefooted,  breeches  rolled 
up  nearly  to  the  knees,  feet  and  ankles  "scratched  and  tanned," 
and  my  face  covered  with  sweat  and  dirt.  The  closest  scrutiny 
would  have  failed  to  detect  in  me  a  single  feature  of  the  supposed 
"pomp  and  circumstance"  of  an  alleged  military  hero.  But  I 
stalked  down  the  line,  bare  feet  and  all,  with  my  musket  at  a 
shoulder  arms,  and  looking  fully  as  proud,  I  imagine,  as  Henry  of 
Navarre  ever  did  at  the  battle  of  Ivry,  with  "a  snow-white  plume 
upon  his  gallant  crest."  By  the  proper  and  usual  commands,  the 
"commanding  officers  of  companies"  were  brought  up  and  halted 
within  a  few  paces  of  Col.  Ohr,  who  thereupon  addressed  them  as 
follows : 

"Gentleman,  have  your  men  stack  arms  where  they  now  are, 
and  at  once  prepare  their  dinner.  They  can  disperse  to  get  wood 
and  water,  but  caution  them  strictly  not  to  wander  far  from  the 
gun  stacks.  We  may  possibly  pass  the  night  here,  but  we  may 
be  called  on,  at  any  moment,  to  fall  in  and  resume  the  march. 
That's  all,  gentlemen." 

While  the  Colonel  was  giving  these  instructions,  I  thought  a 
sort  of  unusual  twinkle  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  as  they  rested  on  me. 
But,  for  my  part,  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.  Returning 
to  the  company,  I  gave  the  order  to  stack  arms,  which  being  done, 
the  boys  crowded  around  me,  plying  me  with  questions.  "What  did 
the  Colonel  say?  What's  up,  Stillwell?"  I  assumed  a  prodigiously 
fierce  and  authoritative  look  and  said:  "Say,  do  you  fellows  sup 
pose  that  we  commanding  officers  of  companies  are  going  to  give 
away  to  a  lot  of  lousy  privates  a  confidential  communication  from 
the  Colonel  ?  If  you  are  guilty  of  any  more  such  impertinent  con 
duct,  I'll  have  every  mother's  son  of  you  bucked  and  gagged."  The 
boys  all  laughed,  and  after  a  little  more  fun  of  that  kind,  I  repeat 
ed  to  them  literally  every  word  the  Colonel  said,  and  then  we  all 
set  about  getting  dinner.  About  this  time  Lieut.  Wallace  rode  up 
in  an  ambulance — and  my  reign  was  over.  We  resumed  the  inarch 


196  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

at  3  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  next  day  (May  23rd),  march 
ed  18  miles,  and  bivouacked  that  night  at  Peach  Orchard  Gap. 
This  was  no  town,  simply  a  natural  feature  of  the  country.  Left 
here  next  morning  (the  24th)  at  daylight,  marched  18  miles,  and 
bivouacked  on  a  stream  called  Little  Cadron.  Left  at  daylight 
next  morning  (the  25th),  marched  18  miles,  and  went  into  camp 
near  the  town  of  Springfield.  By  this  time  the  intelligence  had 
filtered  down  to  the  common  soldiers  as  to  the  object  of  this  ex 
pedition.  It  was  to  intercept,  and  give  battle  to,  a  force  of  Con 
federate  cavalry,  under  Gen.  J.  0.  Shelby,  operating  somewhere 
in  this  region,  and  supposed  to  have  threatening  designs  on  the 
Little  Rock  and  DevalPs  Bluff  railroad.  But  so  far  as  encounter 
ing  the  Confederates  was  concerned,  the  movement  was  an  entire 
failure.  My  experience  during  the  war  warrants  the  assertion,  I 
think,  that  it  is  no  use  to  send  infantry  after  cavalry.  It  is  very 
much  like  like  a  man  on  foot  trying  to  run  down  a  jack-rabbit.  It 
may  be  that  infantry  can  sometimes  head  off  cavalry,  and  thereby 
frustrate  an  intended  movement,  but  men  on  horses  can't  be 
maneuvered  into  fighting  men  on  foot  unless  the  horsemen  are 
willing  to  engage.  Otherwise  they  will  just  keep  out  of  the  way. 
We  remained  at  Springfield  until  May  28th.  It  was  a  little 
place  and  its  population  when  the  war  began  was  probably  not 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty,  or  two  hundred.  It  was  the 
county  seat  of  Conway  county,  but  there  was  no  official  business 
being  transacted  there  now.  About  all  the  people  had  left,  except 
al  few  old  men  and  some  women  and  small  children.  The  houses 
were  nearly  all  log  cajbins.  Even  the  county  jail  was  a  log  struct 
ure  of  a  very  simply  and  unimposing  type.  It  has  always  been 
my  opinion  that  this"  little  place  was  the  most  interesting  and  ro 
mantic-looking  spot  (with  one  possible  exception  I  may  speak  of 
later)  that  I  saw  in  the  South  during  all  my  army  service.  The 
town  was  situated  on  rather  high  ground,  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
primitive  forest.  Grand  native  trees  were  growing  in  the  door- 
yards,  and  even  in  the  middle  of  the  main  street, —  and  all  around 
everywhere.  And  we  were  there  at  a  season  of  the  year  when 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  197 

Nature  was  at  its  best,  and  all  the  scenery  was  most  attractive  and 
charming.  I  sometimes  would  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  some  big 
tree  in  the  center  of  the  little  village,  and  ponder  on  what  surely 
must  have  been  the  happy,  contented  condition  of  its  people  before 
the  war  came  along  and  spoiled  all.  Judging  from  the  looks  of 
the  houses,  the  occupants  doubtless  had  been  poor  people  and  prac 
tically  all  on  the  same  financial  footing,  so  there  was  no  occasion 
for  envy.  And  there  was  no  railroad,  nor  telegrapih  line,  nor  daily 
papers,  to  keep  them  nervous  and  excited  or  cause  them  to  worry. 
And  they  were  far  away  from  the  busy  haunts  of  congregated 
men, — 

'Their  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  their  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth." 

Their  trading  point  was  Lewisburg,  about  fifteen  miles  southwest 
on  the  Arkansas  river,  and  when  that  stream  was  at  a  proper  stage, 
small  steamboats  would  ply  up  and  down,  and  bring  to  Lewisburg 
groceries  and  dry  goods,  and  such  other  things  as  the  country  did 
not  produce,  which  would  then  be  wagoned  out  to  Springfield  and 
into  the  country  generally.  And  judging  from  all  that  could  be 
seen  or  heard,  I  think  there  were  hardly  any  slaves  at  Springfield, 
or  in,  the  entire  north  part  of  Conway  county,  before  the  war. 
What  few  there  may  have  been  were  limited  to  the  plantations 
along  the  Arkansas  river.  I  have  never  been  at  the  little  town 
since  the  occasion  now  mentioned,  so  personally  I  know  nothing  of 
its  present  appearance  and  condition.  However,  as  a  matter  of 
general  information,  it  may  be  said  that  after  the  war  a  railroad 
was  built  running  up  the  Arkansas  river  valley,  through  the  south 
part  of  the  county.  This  road  left  Springfield  out,  so  in  course 
of  time  it  lost  the  county  seat,  which  went  to  a  railroad  town.  And 
this  road  also  missed  Lewisburg,  which  has  now  disappeared  from 
the  map  entirely. 

When  in  camp  at  Springfield,  many  of  the  boys,  in  accordance 
with  their  usual  habits,  of  their  own  motion  at  once  went  to  scout 
ing  around  over  the  adjacent  country,  after  pigs,  or  chickens,  or 
anything  else  that  would  serve  to  vary  army  fare.  While  so  en- 


198  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

gaged  two  or  three  of  our  fellows  discovered  a  little  old  whisky  still. 
It  was  about  two  miles  from  Springfield,  situated  in  a  deep,  timber 
ed  hollow,  near  a  big  spring.     It  was  fully  equipped  for  active  op 
eration,  with  a  supply  of  "mash"  on  hands,  and  all  other  essentials 
for  turning  out  whisky.     Some  of  the  10th  Illinois  Cavalry  found 
it  first,  and  scared  away  the  proprietor,  then  took  charge  of  the 
still  and  proceeded  to  carry  on  the  business  on  their  own  account. 
The  boys  of  the  61st  who  stumbled  on  the  place  were  too  few  to 
cope  with  the  cavalrymen;  thereupon  they  hastened  back  to  camp 
and  informed  some  trusty  comrades  of  the  delectable  discovery. 
Forthwith  they  organized  a  strong  party  as  an    alleged    "provost 
guard,"  and  all  armed,  and  under  the  command  of  a  daring,  reckless 
duty  sergeant,  hastened  to  the  still.     On  arriving  there,  in  their 
capacity  as  provost  guards,  they  summarily  arrested  the  cavalry 
men,  with  loud  threats  of  condign  punishment,  but  after  scaring 
them  sufficiently,  and  on  their  solemn  promise  to  at  once  return 
to  camp  and  "be  good"  in  the  future,  released  them,  and  allowed 
them  to  depart.     Then  our  bunch  stacked  arms,  and  started  in  to 
make  whisky.     Some  of  the  number  had  served  in  the  business  be 
fore,  and  knew  all  about  it,  so  that  little  still  there  in  the  hollow 
was  then  and  there  worked  to  its  utmost  capacity,  day  and  night, 
and  doubtless  as  it  never  had  been  before.     Knowledge  of  this  en 
terprise  spread  like  wild-fire  among  the  enlisted  men, — and  oh, 
"how  the  whisky  went  down"  at  Springfield!     Away  along  some 
hours  after  midnight,  I  would  hear  some  of  the  boys  coming  in  from 
the  still,  letting  out  keen,  piercing  whoops  that  could    be    heard 
nearly  a  mile.     Like  the  festive  Tarn  O'Shanter  (with  apologies 
to  Burns), — 

"The  swats  sae  reamed  in  every  noddle, 
They  cared  na  rebs  nor  guards  a  boddle." 

I  took  just  one  little  taste  of  the  stuff,  from  Sam  Ralston's  canteen. 
It  was  limpid  and  colorless  as  water,  and  fairly  burnt  like  fire  as  it 
went  down  my  throat.  That  satisfied  my  curiosity,  and  after  that 
many  similar  offers  were  declined,  with  thanks.  Whether  the  of 
ficers  at  the  time  knew  of  this  business  or  not,  I  do  not  know.  If 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  199 

they  did,  they  just  "winked  the  other  eye/'  and  said  nothing,  for 
the  boys  ran  the  still,  without  restriction  or  interruption,  until  we 
left  Springfield. 

Telling  of  the  foregoing  episode  causes  many  other  incidents 
to  come  flocking  to  my  memory  that  came  under  my  notice  during 
my  army  career,  and  in  which  whisky  figured  more  or  less.  The  in 
satiable,  inordinate  appetite  of  some  of  the  men  for  intoxicating 
liquor,  of  any  kind,  was  something  remarkable,  and  the  ingenious 
schemes  they  would  devise  to  get  it  were  worthy  of  admiration,  had 
they  been  exerted  in  a  better  cause.  And  they  were  not  a  bit 
fastidious  about  the  kind  of  liquor,  it  was  the  effect  that  was  de 
sired.  One  afternoon,  a  day  or  two  after  we  arrived  at  Helena, 
Arkansas,  a  sudden  yell,  a  sort  of  "ki-yip !"  was  heard  issuing  from 
one  of  the  company  tents,  soon  followed  by  others  of  the  same 
tone.  I  had  heard  that  peculiar  yelp  before,  and  knew  what  it 
meant.  Presently  I  sauntered  down  to  the  tent  from  whence  the 
sounds  issued,  and  walked  in.  Several  of  the  boys  were  seated 
around,  in  an  exalted  state  of  vociferous  hilarity,  and  a  flat,  pint 
bottle,  with  the  figure  of  a  green  leaf  on  one  side,  and  labeled 
"Bay  Rum"  on  the  other,  was  promptly  handed  to  me,  with  the  in 
vitation  to  "drink  hearty."  I  did  taste  it.  It  was  oily,  greasy, 
and  unpleasant,  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  intoxicating. 
It  was  nothing  but  bay  rum,  the  same  stuff  that  in  those  days 
barbers  were  wont  to  use  in  their  line  of  business.  It  finally  came 
to  light  that  the  sutler  of  some  regiment  at  Helena  had  induced 
the  post-quartermaster  at  Cairo  to  believe  that  the  troops  stood  in 
urgent  need  of  bay  rum  for  the  purpose  of  anointing  their  hair, 
and  thereupon  he  obtained  permission  to  include  several  boxes  of 
the  stuff  in  his  sutler  supplies.  When  he  got  it  to  Helena  he  pro 
ceeded  to  sell  it  at  a  dollar  a  bottle,  and  his  stock  was  exhausted  in 
a  few  hours.  What  may  have  been  done  to  this  sutler  I  don't 
know,  but  that  was  the  last  and  only  time  that  I  know  of  bay  rum 
being  sold  to  the  soldiers  as  a  toilet  article,  or  otherwise.  Of 
course,  all  sutlers  and  civilians  were  prohibited,  under  severe  pen 
alties,  from  selling  intoxicating  liquor  to  the  enlisted  men,  but  the 


200  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

profits  were  so  large  that  the  temptation  was  great  to  occasionally 
transgress,  in  some  fashion.  But,  as  a  general  rule,  I  think  that 
the  orders  were  scrupulously  obeyed.  The  risk  was  too  great  to 
do  otherwise. 

I  remember  a  little  personal  experience  of  my  own,  when  once 
I  tried  to  buy  a  drink  of  whisky.  It  is  not  a  long  story,  so  it  will 
be  told.  It  occurred  at  Devall's  Bluff,  in  October,  1863,  when  our 
little  furlough  party  was  there,  waiting  the  arrival  of  a  boat  from 
below  on  which  to  resume  our  homeward  journey.  One  night  in 
particular  was  quite  cold.  We  slept  in  our  blankets  on  the  ground 
near  the  bank  of  the  river,  built  good  fires,  and  tried  to  keep  as 
comfortable  as  possible.  But  the  morning  after  this  cold  night  I 
got  up  feeling  wretched,  both  mentally  and  physically.  I  was  weak 
from  previous  illness,  my  rheumatic  pains  were  worse,  and  my 
condition  in  general  was  such  as  caused  me  to  fear  that  I  was  liable 
to  break  down  and  not  be  able  to  go  home.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
a  drink  of  whisky  might  brace  me  up  some,  so  I  started  out  to  ob 
tain  one,  'if  possible.  There  was  a  sort  of  a  wharf-boat  at  the 
landing,  moored  to  the  bank,  a  stationary,  permanent  affair,  with 
a  saloon  appurtenant.  I  went  on  the  boat,  walked  up  to  the  bar, 
and  exhibiting  a  greenback  to  the  bar-keeper,  asked  him  if  he 
would  sell  me  a  drink  of  whisky.  "Can't  do  it,"  he  answered, 
"the  orders  are  strict  against  selling  whisky  to  soldiers."  I  began 
movingAway,  and  at  that  instant  a  big,  greasy,  colored  deck-hand, 
or  laborer  of  some  sort,  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  crowded  by  me, 
brushing  against  me  in  the  narrow  passage  on  his  way  to  the  bar. 
"Boss,"  he  called  to  the  keeper,  "want  a  dram!"  A  bottle  and  a 
glass  were  pushed  towards  him,  he  filled  the  glass  to  the  brim,  and 
drank  the  contents  at  a  gulp.  Then  he  smacked  his  big  lips,  rolled 
his  eyes  around,  and  with  a  deep  breath  exclaimed,  "A-h-h!  Dat 
whisky  feels  des  pow'ful  good  dis  cole  mawnin' !"  I  looked  at  the 
darkey  in  bitterness  of  heart,  and  couldn't  help  thinking  that  it 
was  all-fired  mean,  when  a  poor  little  sick  soldier  was  not  allowed 
to  buy  a  drink  of  whisky,  while  a  great  big  buck  nigger  roustabout 
had  it  handed  out  to  him  with  cheerfulness  and  alacrity.  But  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  201 

orders  forbidding  the  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors  to  soldiers  were 
all  right,  and  an  imperative  military  necessity.  If  the  men  had 
been  allowed  unlimited  access  to  whisky,  and  the  like,  that  would, 
in  my  opinion,  simply  have  been  ruinous  to  the  good  order,  dis 
cipline,  and  efficiency  of  the  army.  That  statement  is  based  on 
events  I  saw  myself  while  in  the  service,  and  which  occurred  when, 
in  spite  of  the  orders,  the  men  managed  to  obtain  liquor  without 
let  or  hindrance.  The  scenes  that  would  then  ensue  are  too  un 
pleasant  to  talk  about,  so  they  will  be  passed  over  in  silence.  It  is 
only  fair,  however,  to  say  that  the  same  men  who,  when  furiously 
drunk,  were  a  disgrace  to  themselves  and  the  organization  to  which 
they  belonged,  were,  as  a  general  rule,  faithful  and  brave  soldiers 
when  sober. 

At  4  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  28th  we  broke  camp  at 
Springfield,  and  started  back  to  Little  Rock,  marching  in  a  south 
easterly  direction.  We  marched  all  that  day,  the  29th,  30th,  and 
31st,  and  arrived  at  our  old  camp  at  Huntersville  at  9  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  the  last  mentioned  day.  According  to  the  official  re 
port  the  entire  distance  marched  on  the  expedition,  going  and  com 
ing,  was  190  miles,  and  we  didn't  see  an  armed  Confederate  on  the 
whole  trip.  Our  return  route  was  through  the  wilderness,  most  of 
it  primeval  forest,  and  we  didn't  pass  through  a  single  town.  But 
now  there  is  a  railroad  that  runs  practically  over  all  the  course 
we  followed  during  the  last  three  days  we  were  on  this  march.  I 
haven't  been  in  that  region  since  we  passed  through  there  in  May, 
1864,  but  at  that  time  it  certainly  was  a  very  wild,  rough,  an)d 
broken  country.  We  here  had  our  first  experience  with  scorpions 
and  tarantulas,  and  soon  learned  that  it  was  prudent,  when  biv 
ouacking  on  the  ground,  to  carefully  turn  over  all  loose  rocks  and 
logs  in  order  to  find  and  get  rid  of  those  ugly  customers.  The 
scorpions  were  about  four  or  five  inches  long,  the  fore  part  of  the 
body  something  like  a  crawfish,  with  a  sharp  stinger  on  the  end 
of  the  tail.  When  excited  or  disturbed,  they  would  curl  their  tails 
over  their  backs,  and  get  over  the  ground  quite  rapidly.  The  tar 
antulas  were  just  big  hairy  spiders,  of  a  blackish-gray  color,  about 


202  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

as  big  as  toads,  and  mighty  ugly-looking  things.  The  sting  of  the 
tarantula,  and  the  bite  of  a  spider,  were  very  painful,  but  when 
that  happened  to  any  of  us  (which  was  seldom),  our  remedy  was 
to  apply  a  big,  fresh  quid  of  tobacco  to  the. wound,  which  would 
promptly  neutralize  the  poison. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  203 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

DEVALL'S  BLUFF ;  THE  CLARENDON  EXPEDITION.— JUNE 
AND  JULY,  1864. 

On  June  20th  we  left  Huntersville  on  the  cars  and  went  to 
Hick  s'  Station,  hereinbefore  mentioned,  and  there  went  into  camp. 
In  making  this  move,  we  left  Little  Rock  for  the  last  time,  and  from 
that  day  I  have  never  seen  the  old  town  again.  But  our  stay  at 
Hicks'  Station  was  brief.  Marching  orders  came  on  June  24th,  and 
on  the  next  day  we  left  on  the  cars  and  went  to  Devall's  Bluff,  and 
on  reaching  there  filed  on  board  the  steamer  "Kentucky,"  and 
started  down  White  river,  accompanied  by  several  other  boats  also 
loaded  with  troops,  all  under  the  command  of  Gen.  E.  A.  Carr. 
The  object  and  purpose  of  this  expedition  was  soon  noised  around 
among  the  men.  The  daring  and  enterprising  Confederate  Gen 
eral  Shelby  had  on  June  24th  turned  up  at  Clarendon,  on  White 
river,  not  far  below  DevalPs  Bluff,  and  here,  with  the  aid  of  his 
artillery,  had  surprised  and  captured  one  of  our  so-called  "tin-clad" 
gunboats,  and  had  established  a  blockade  of  the  river.  As  all  our 
supplies  came  by  way  of  that  stream,  it  was  necessary  to  drive 
Shelby  away  at  once,  hence  our  movement.  We  arrived  at  Clar 
endon  on  the  morning  of  the  26th.  Some  of  our  gunboats  were 
with  us,  in  advance,  and  as  soon  as  they  came  within  range  of  the 
town  began  shelling  it,  and  the  woods  beyond.  The  cannonade 
elicited  no  reply,  and  it  was  soon  ascertained  that  the  enemy  had 
fallen  back  from  the  river.  The  transports  thereupon  landed,  the 
men  marched  on  shore,  formed  in  line  of  battle,  and  advanced. 
The  Confederates  were  found  in  force  about  two  miles  northeast 
of  town,  and  some  lively  skirmishing  and  artillery  practice  began. 
But  our  regiment  was  stationed  in  the  supporting  line,  (darn  it!) 
and  didn't  get  to  pull  a  trigger.  Cannon  shot  went  over  our 
heads  now  and  then,  but  hurt  nobody.  While  the  racket  was  go- 


204  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

ing  on  we  were  standing  in  line  of  battle,  on  the  hither  side  of  an 
extensive  cotton  field,  and  there  was  a  big,  tall  cottonwood  tree 
standing  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  our  front  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  I  was  looking  in  that  direction  when  suddenly,  as  if  by 
magic,  a  big  forked  branch  of  this  tree  quietly  took  leave  of  the 
trunk,  as  if  it  "didn't  know  how  it  happened."  Before  it  struck 
the  ground  the  shot  from  one  of  Shelby's  guns  that  had  done  this 
pruning  went  screaming  over  our  heads.  It  sounded  just  real 
good,  like  old  times,  with  an  effect,  somehow,  like  a  powerful  tonic. 
But  the  affair  didn't  last  long.  Shelby  had  no  stomach  for  fighting 
infantry,  well  supplied  with  artillery,  and  he  soon  fell  back,  and 
rapidly  retreated  in  a  northerly  direction,  leaving  two  pieces  of  his 
artillery  in  our  possession.  When  the  Confederates  retired,  we 
followed  promptly  and  vigorously,  but  of  course  the  infantry 
couldn't  overhaul  them,  and  neither  could  our  cavalry  bring  them 
to  a  determined  stand.  Our  route  was  largely  through  a  low, 
swampy  country,  over  a  "corduroy"  road.  In  many  places  there 
were  large  gaps  in  the  corduroy,  where  the  logs  had  rotted  and 
disappeared,  and  the  road  was  covered  with  green  and  slimy  water 
about  knee-deep.  On  encountering  the  first  of  these  breaks,  we 
took  off  our  shoes  and  socks,  tied  them  to  the  ends  of  the  barrels 
of  our  muskets,  rolled  up  our  trousers,  and  waded  in.  As  such 
places  were  numerous,  it  was  not  worth  while  to  resume  our  foot 
gear,  so  we  just  trudged  on  bare-footed.  But  the  weather  was 
warm,  and  it  made  no  difference,  and  the  boys  would  splash 
through  the  mud  and  water  in  great  good  humor,  laughing  and  jok 
ing  as  they  went.  We  followed  hard  after  Shelby  until  the  even 
ing  of  the  27th,  and  it  being  impossible  to  catch  up  with  him,  we 
started  back  to  Clarendon  on  the  morning  of  the  28th. 
In  the  matter  of  rations  I  reckon  "someone  had  blundered," 
when  we  started  in  pursuit  of  Shelby.  We  had  left 
Clarendon  with  only  a  meager  supply  in  our  haversacks,  and  no 
provision  train  was  with  the  command.  So  at  the  time  we  took 
the  back  track  we  were  out  of  anything  to  eat.  The  country  bor 
dering  on  our  route  was  wild,  and  thinly  settled,  and  what  people 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  205 

lived  there  were  manifestly  quite  poor,  hence  there  was  very  little 
in  the  shape  of  anything  to  eat  that  we  could  forage.  On  the  first 
day  of  our  return  march  our  commissary  sergeant,  Bonfoy,  did 
manage  to  capture  and  kill  a  gaunt,  lean  old  Arkansas  steer,  and 
it  was  divided  up  among  the  men  with  almost  as  much  nicety  and 
exactness  as  if  it  was  a  wedding  cake  with  a  prize  diamond  ring  in 
it ;  and  we  hadn't  any  salt  to  go  with  it,  but  in  lieu  of  that  used  gun 
powder,  which  was  a  sort  of  substitute.  With  that  exception,  (and 
a  piece  of  hardtack,  to  be  presently  mentioned,)  my  bill  of  fare  on 
the  return  march  until  we  reached  Clarendon  consisted,  in  the 
main,  of  a  green,  knotty  apple, — and  some  sassafras  buds.  About 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon  on  the  second  day  the  regiment  made  a 
temporary  halt  for  some  purpose,  and  we  were  sitting,  or  lying 
down,  along  the  road  side.  There  was  a  bunch  of  our  cavalry  on 
their  horses,  in  column  off  the  road  a  short  distance,  also  at  a  halt, 
and  I  saw  one  of  them  munching  a  hardtack.  I  slipped  out  of  ranks 
and  approached  the  fellow,  and  when  close  to  him  said,  "Partner, 
won't  you  give  me  a  hardtack?"  He  looked  at  me  a  second  or 
two  without  saying  anything,  and  I  was  fearful  that  my  appeal 
was  going  to  be  denied.  But  the  look  of  ravenous  hunger  in  my 
eyes  probably  gained  the  case,  for  at  last  he  reached  his  hand  into 
his  haversack  and  handed  me  a  tack,  one  of  the  big  kind  about  four 
or  five  inches  square.  I  was  barely  in  time,  for  right  then  the 
cavalry  moved  on.  I  thrust  the  tack  into  my  shirt  bosom,  gave  a 
quick,  furtive  glance  towards  the  company  to  see  if  anyone  had  ob 
served  me,  and  then  started  to  get  behind  a  big  tree,  where  the 
precious  morsel  could  be  devoured  without  risk  of  detection.  But 
John  Barton  had  been  watching,  and  was  upon  me  before  I  could 
hide.  "Hold  on,  Stillwell,"  said  he,  "that  don't  go!  I  divided  with 
you  as  long  as  I  had  a  crumb!"  "That's  so,  John,"  I  replied, 
heaving  a  mournful  sigh,  "here;"  and  breaking  the  hardtack  in  two, 
I  gave  him  a  fair  half,  and  standing  behind  the  tree  we  promptly 
gobbled  down  our  respective  portions. 

We  arrived  at  Clarendon  on  the  evening  of  the  29th — having 
marched,   in   going  and   returning,   about   seventy   miles.    Here 


206  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

everybody  got  a  square  meal,  which  was  heartily  appreciated.  As 
bearing  on  the  above  mentioned  incident  about  the  hardtack,  it 
will  be  said  here,  basing  my  remarks  on  my  experience  in  the  army, 
and  elsewhere,  that  I  think  there  is  nothing  that  will  reduce  human 
beings  so  much  to  the  level  of  the  brute  creation  as  intense,  gnaw 
ing  hunger.  All  the  selfishness  there  is  in  a  man  will  then  come 
to  the  surface,  and  to  satisfy  the  well-nigh  intolerable  craving  for 
something  to  eat,  he  will  "go  back"  on  his  best  friend.  I  could 
cite  several  instances  in  support  of  this  statement  that  have  come 
under  my  observation,  but  it  is  unnecessary. 

Soon  after  reaching  Clarendon,  as  above  stated,  fires  burst 
forth,  apparently  simultaneously,  all  over  the  town,  and  soon  every 
building  was  in  ashes.  It  was  a  small  place,  and  its  population  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  probably  did  not  exceed  three  hundred. 
At  this  time  the  town  had  been  abandoned  by  the  residents,  and  so 
far  as  I  know  the  houses  were  all  vacant.  The  buildings  were 
small  frame  or  log  structures,  composed  of  cypress  and  pine  lum 
ber  or  logs,  roofed  with  shingles,  and  highly  combustible,  and  they 
made  an  exceedingly  hot  fire.  I  do  not  know  the  cause  of  the 
burning  of  the  town.  The  soldiers  were  tired,  mad,  and  out  of 
sorts  generally,  and  they  may  have  fired  it  on  their  own  motion, 
but  it  is  more  likely  that  it  was  done  by  order  of  the  military 
authorities.  The  empty  houses  afforded  excellent  cover  whereby 
the  Confederates  could  slip  up  to  the  river  bank  and  annoy  our 
gunboats,  even  to  the  extent  of  capturing  one,  as  they  had  done 
quite  recently.  So  as  a  military  measure  the  burning  of  the  town 
was  fully  justified. 

We  left  Clarendon  on  the  evening  of  the  29th,  on  the  steamer 
"Lillie  Martin,"  arrived  at  Devall's  Bluff  some  time  during  the 
night,  debarked  from  the  boat  next  morning,  and  went  into  camp 
near  the  river,  where  we  enjoyed  for  a  time  an  agreeable  rest. 

Before  taking  final  leave  of  the  Clarendon  expedition  I  will,  in 
the  interest  of  the  truth  of  history,  indulge  in  a  little  criticism  of 
the  gallant  and  distinguished  officer  who  was  the  Confederate  com 
mander  in  this  affair.  All  who  are  conversant  with  the  military 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  207 

career  of  General  J.  0.  Shelby  will  readily  concede  that  he  was  a 
brave,  skillful,  and  energetic  cavalry  commander.  He  kept  us  in 
hot  water  almost  continually  in  the  Trans-Mississippi  department, 
and  made  us  a  world  of  trouble.  But  I  feel  constrained  to  remark 
that,  in  reporting  his  military  operations,  he  was,  sometimes,  a 
most  monumental  -  -  well,  I'll  scratch  out  the  "short  and  ugly" 
word  I  have  written,  and  substitute  "artist,"  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
I  have  just  been  reading  his  reports  of  this  Clarendon  episode,  as 
they  appear  on  pages  1050-1053,  Serial  Number  61,  Official  Records 
of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  and  as  he  describes  it,  it  is  difficult  to 
recognize  it  as  being  the  same  affair  we  took  part  in,  in  June,  1864. 
In  the  first  place,  he  says  that  the  loss  of  the  Federals  can  "safely 
be  put  down  at  250  killed  and  wounded,"  and  that  30  will  cover  his 
own.  On  the  other  hand,  our  commander,  Gen.  Carr,  says  the 
Confederate  loss,  killed,  wounded  and  captured,  was  "about"  74, 
and  gives  ours  as  1  killed  and  16  wounded.  (Ib.,  p.  1047.)  And 
from  what  I  personally  saw,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Gen.  Carr's 
statements  are  correct.  Shelby  further  asserts  that  "three  times" 
he  drove  us  "back  to  the  river,"  and  that  later,  while  on  his  re 
treat,  he  "charged"  us  and  "drove  them  (us)  back  three  miles  in 
confusion."  Now,  those  statements  are  pure  moonshine.  I  was 
there,  and  while,  as  previously  stated,  not  on  the  firing  line,  was 
nevertheless  in  a  position  either  to  see  or  hear  every  thing  of  any 
material  consequence  that  transpired.  The  force  on  each  side  was 
comparatively  small,  the  field  of  active  operations  was  limited,  and 
it  was  not  difficult  for  even  a  common  soldier  to  have  an  intelligent 
idea  of  what  was  going  on.  And,  for  my  part,  with  the  natural 
curiosity  of  a  boy,  I  was  constantly  on  the  alert  to  see  or  hear 
everything  that  was  being  done  in  the  shape  of  fighting.  In  the 
operations  near  the  town,  we  were  not  driven  "back  to  the  river," 
nor  towards  it,  on  any  occasion.  On  his  retreat,  Shelby  did  make 
one  or  two  feeble  stands,  the  object  being  merely  to  delay  us  until 
his  main  body  could  get  well  out  of  the  way,  and  when  that  was 
accomplished,  his  rear  guard  galloped  after  them  as  fast  as  they 
could.  That  it  was  mainly  a  race  with  him  to  get  away  is  evident 


208  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

from  a  statement  in  his  report,  in  which  he  says  he  was  then 
(June  30th)  "resting"  his  "tired  and  terribly  jaded  horses." 
But,  in  telling  of  his  exploits,  he  says  nothing  about  losing  two 
pieces  of  his  artillery.  The  saying  of  Bonaparte's,  "False  as  a 
war  bulletin,"  has  passed  into  a  proverb,  and  this  bulletin  of  Gen. 
Shelby's  is  no  exception. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  209 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DEVALL'S  BLUFF.— GRAND  REVIEWS  AND  INSPECTIONS. 

-SURGEON  J.  P.  ANTHONY.— PRIVATE  PRESS 

ALLENDER.— JUNE  AND  JULY,  1864. 

I  have  said  nothing  so  far  about  "grand  reviews,"  or  other 
functions  of  that  sort,  and  here  is  us  good  a  place  as  any  to  notice 
them.  From  so  ne  cause  or  other  we  had  what  seemed  to  us  an 
undue  proportion  of  grand  reviews  in  Arkansas  in  the  summer  of 
1864.  They  were  not  a  bit  popular  with  the  common  soldiers.  It 
became  a  saying  among  us,  when  a  grand  review  was  ordered,  that 
the  reviewing  officer  had  got  a  new  uniform  and  wanted  to  show 
it — but,  of  course,  that  was  only  soldier  talk. 

On  June  10th,  while  in  camp  at  Huntersville,  all  the  troops  at 
Little  Rock  were  reviewed  by  Maj.  Gen.  Daniel  E.  Sickles,  late  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  He  lost  a  leg*  at  the  battle  of  Gettys 
burg,  which  incapacitated  him  for  active  service,  so  President 
Lincoln  gave  him  a  sort  of  roving  commission  to  visit  and  inspect 
all  the  western  troops.  In  conducting  the  review  at  Little  Rock, 
on  account  of  his  maimed  condition  he  rode  along  the  line  in  an 
open  carriage.  The  day  was  exceedingly  hot,  the  troops  on  our 
side  of  the  river  were  reviewed  on  low  grounds  where  the  air  was 
stifling,  we  wore  our  jackets  tightly  buttoned,  and  we  all  suffered 
fearfully  from  heat.  One  man  in  the  line  near  me  went  over  with 
a  crash,  all  in  a  pile,  from  sunstroke,  and  I  heard  that  there  were 
several  other  such  cases.  Nine  days  later,  (June  19th,)  we  had 
division  grand  review  conducted  by  our  division  commander,  Gen. 
C.  C.  Andrews,  and  on  July  llth  another  grand  review  by  the 
same  officer.  And  interspersed  with  the  reviews  were  several 
brigade  inspections  of  arms.  But  as  those  did  not  involve  any 
marching,  they  were  not  as  fatiguing  as  the  reviews.  I  will  men 
tion  specifically  but  one  of  these  inspections,  and  do  so  for  the 


210  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

reason  that  there  were  some  things  connected  with  it  I  have  always 
remembered  with  interest  and  pleasure.  It  was  held  on  July  4th,  at 
Devall's  Bluff,  the  inspecting  officer  being  Col.  Randolph  B.  Marcy, 
Inspector-General  U.  S.  Army.  He  was  a  regular  army  officer,  a 
graduate  of  West  Point,  and  at  this  time  was  about  fifty-two  years 
of  age.  He  was  over  six  feet  tall,  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  H 
splendid  looking  man  in  general.  We  had  very  short  notice  of  this 
inspection,  and  having  returned  only  a  few  days  before  from  the 
Clarendon  expedition,  had  not  yet  had  time  or  opportunity  to  wash 
our  shirts,  and  were  in  quite  a  rough  and  tough  condition.  And 
the  fact  that  this  inspection  was  to  be.  conducted  by  the  Inspector- 
General  of  the  United  States  Army,  an  old  regular,  and  a  West 
Point  graduate,  made  us  nervous,  and  we  apprehended  all  sorts  of 
trouble.  So  far  as  I  ever  knew,  the  volunteers  had  not  much  love 
for  the  regular  army  officers.  We  regarded  them  as  unreasonably 
strict  and  technical,  and  were  of  the  impression  that  they  were 
inclined  to  "look  down"  on  volunteers.  Whether  this  feeling  was 
well  founded,  or  not,  I  cannot  say,  but  there  is  no  question  that  it 
existed.  On  this  occasion  we  went  to  work  with  a  will,  and  soon 
had  our  muskets,  bayonets,  belt-plates,  and  accouterments  in  gen 
eral,  bright  and  shining,  and  in  the  very  pink  of  condition.  It 
was  to  be  an  inspection  of  arms  only,  and  did  not  include  knapsacks. 
About  9  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  July  4th,  we  fell  in  on  the  regi 
mental  parade  ground,  broke  into  columns  of  companies,  right  in 
front,  in  open  order,  and  the  greatly  feared  Inspector-General  en 
tered  on  his  duty.  As  already  stated,  we  looked  hard.  Many  of 
us  were  barefoot,  and  our  clothes  in  general  were  dirty  and  ragged. 
But  Col.  Marcy  knew  we  had  just  come  off  a  march,  he  was  a  very 
sensible  man,  and  capable  of  making  some  allowances.  In  accord 
ance  with  the  regulations,  he  passed  in  front  of  us,  walking  slowly 
and  looking  at  us  critically.  As  he  came  opposite  each  soldier,  the 
latter  brought  his  piece  into  the  prescribed  position  for  examina 
tion,  but  Col.  Marcy  contented  himself  with  a  sweeping  glance,  and 
did  not  take  the  musket  in  his  hands.  Then  he  passed  to  the  rear 
of  the  ranks,  and  walked  slowly  along  behind  us,  while  we  stood 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  21 1 

immovable,  with  eyes  fixed  to  the  front.  It  was  soon  all  over. 
He  then  approached  Col.  Ohr,  said  something  I  did  not  hear,  but 
which  was  evidently  pleasant,  for  the  Colonel  smiled,  then  turned 
round  facing  us,  and  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  in  our  direction  said, 
— loud  enough  for  many  of  us  to  hear,  "Good  soldiers !"  where 
upon  we  all  felt  much  relieved  and  proud, — and  the  dreaded  in 
spection  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  Several  years  afterwards,  when 
in  civil  life  out  in  Kansas,  I  learned  that  Col.  Marcy  was  not  only 
a  grand  old  soldier,  but  also  a  most  interesting  writer.  I  have  two 
of  his  books  in  my  library  now,  and  have  had  for  many  years, 
one  being  his  official  report  of  the  "Exploration  of  the  Red  River  of 
Louisiana,  in  the  year  1852 ;"  the  other,  "Thirty  Years  of  Army 
Life  on  the  Border."  Both  are  highly  interesting,  and  I  frequently 
take  them  from  the  shelf  and  look  them  over.  And  when  I  do  so, 
there  always  rises. up  on  about  every  page  the  recollection  of  the 
tall,  imposing  figure  of  Col.  Marcy,  as  he  stood  beneath  the  oaks 
at  Devall's  Bluff,  Arkansas,  on  the  morning  of  July  4th,  1864,  and 
waved  his  arm  towards  us,  and  said  in  a  kind  tone,  and  with  ap 
proving  look:  "Good  soldiers!" 

There  was  in  Company  D  an  original  sort  of  a  character,  by 
the  name  of  Ambrose  Pressley  Allender, — for  short,  generally 
called  "Press."  He  was  at  this  time  (1864)  about  thirty-five 
years  old.  He  had  been  a  private  in  a  regiment  of  Kentucky  in 
fantry  during  the  Mexican  War,  but  what  the  length  of  his  service 
may  have  been  I  do  not  know.  But  in  his  Mexican  War  experience 
he  had  at  least  learned  every  possible  trick  and  device  that  could  be 
resorted  to  in  "playing  off,"  as  the  boys  called  it;  that  is,  avoiding 
duty  on  the  plea  of  sickness  or  any  other  excuse  that  would  serve. 
He  was  not  a  bad  man,  by  any  means,  but  a  good-hearted  old  fel 
low.  He  had  re-enlisted,  along  with  the  rest  of  us,  when  the  regi 
ment  "veteranized."  But  his  propensity  for  shirking  duty,  es 
pecially  anything  severe  or  unpleasant,  seemed  inveterate  and  in 
curable.  He  made  me  lots  of  trouble,  for  some  time,  after  I  be 
came  first  sergeant.  I  was  only  a  boy,  and  he  was  a  man  of 
mature  age,  about  fifteen  years  my  senior,  and  looking  back  to 


212  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

those  days,  I  can  see  now  where  many  times  he  pulled  the  wool 
over  my  eyes  completely  and  induced  me  to  grant  him  favors  in  the 
matter  of  details  that  he  was  not  entitled  to.  But  it  was  not  long 
before  I  began  to  understand  Press,  and  then,  if  he  was  excused 
from  duty,  or  passed  over  for  a  lighter  job,  the  authority  had  to 
come  from  the  regimental  surgeon.  Dr.  Julius  P.  Anthony,  of 
Brown  county,  Illinois,  was  appointed  surgeon  of  the  regiment  in 
September,  1863,  and  remained  with  us  in  that  capacity  until  we 
were  mustered  out  of  the  service.  He  was  not  a  handsome  man, 
by  any  means.  He  was  hawk-nosed,  with  steel-blue  eyes,  and  had 
a  most  peculiar  sort  of  a  high-keyed,  nasal  toned  voice.  But  he 
was  an  excellent  physician,  and  a  shrewd,  accurate  judge  of  men. 
So,  when  Press  bucked  up  against  Dr.  Anthony,  he  found  a  foeman 
worthy  of  his  steel,  and  the  keen-eyed  old  doctor  was  a  different 
proposition  from  a  boy  orderly  sergeant.  Press  would  keep  close 
watch  of  the  details  as  they  progressed  down  the  company  roll,  and 
when  he  was  next  in  turn,  and  the  impending  duty  was  one  he  did 
not  fancy,  would  then  retire  to  his  tent  or  shack,  and  when  wanted 
for  picket,  or  some  laborious  fatigue  duty,  would  be  found  curled 
up  in  his  bunk  and  groaning  dismally.  When  we  were  at  Devall's 
Bluff,  at  a  time  about  the  last  of  July,  1864,  I  discovered  him  in  this 
condition  one  morning  before  sick  call,  when  I  went  to  apprise 
him  (out  of  abundant  caution)  that  he  was  next  for  duty,  and  not 
to  wander  from  the  camp.  He  forthwith  told  me  he  was  very  sick, 
hadn't  slept  a  wink  all  night,  and  that  I  must  pass  over  him  for  the 
time  being.  I  replied  that  if  he  was  sick,  he  must  fall  in  at  sick- 
call,  and  have  thei  surgeon  pass  on  his  case,  so  he  climbed  out  of 
his  bunk,  put  on  his  trousers,  and  made  ready.  Sick-call  was 
sounded  pretty  soon,  and  I  went  with  Press  and  two  or  three  of  the 
other  boys  to  the  surgeon's  tent.  Press  kept  in  the  background 
until  the  other  cases  were  disposed  of,  and  then  stepped  forward. 
His  breeches  were  unbuttoned  down  to  nearly  the  last  button,  he 
was  holding  them  up  with  his  hands,  and  his  stomach  protruded 
like  the  belly  of  a  brood-sow.  "Well,  Allender,"  inquired  Dr. 
Anthony,  "egad,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Press  was  care- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  213 

ful  to  put  on  all  the  military  frills  at  such  a  time,  and  he  began 
thus:  "Major  Anthony,  First  Sergeant  Stillwell  has  several  times 
putten  me  on  duty  when  I  was  not  fitten  for  duty,  and  so  I  am  now 
compelled  to  come  to  you,  and — "  "That'll  do,  Allender,"  inter 
rupted  the  doctor,  "what  are  your  symptoms?"  Press  then  began 
the  story  of  his  woes.  He  had  racking  pains  in  the  stomach,  head 
ache,  couldn't  sleep,  "all  bloated  up,"  he  said,  "as  you  can  see  for 
yourself;"  with  a  comprehensive  gesture  towards  his  abdominal 
region, — and  numerous  other  troubles,  including  "night  sweats." 
Dr.  Anthony  heard  him  patiently,  and  without  interruption,  but 
scanned  him  closely  all  the  time  he  was  talking.  Press  at  last 
stopped  to  take  breath,  and  then  the  doctor,  in  his  rasping  voice, 
spoke  as  follows:  "Allender,  the  trouble  with  you  is  simply  exer 
cising  too  little,  and  eating  too  much.  And  if  you  don't  quit  stuff 
ing  yourself,  and  get  around  more,  I  shall  instruct  Sergeant  Still- 
well  to  put  you  on  fatigue  duty  every  day  until  you  are  rid  of  that 
mass  of  fermenting  fecal  matter  in  your  bowels,  and  your  stomach 
is  restored  to  normal  condition.  That's  all."  Then  addressing  me, 
he  said :  "Allender's  able  for  duty ;"  and  Press  and  I  walked  out. 
As  soon  as  we  were  beyond  the  hearing  of  Dr.  Anthony,  Press 
turned  loose.  He  was  a  terribly  profane  fellow  when,  in  his 
opinion,  ordinary  language  would  not  do  the  subject  justice,  and  had 
accumulated  a  stock  of  the  most  unique  and  outrageous  expres 
sions  that  could  be  invented,  and  all  these  he  now  fired  at  the  Doc 
tor.  Having  no  desire  to  put  salt  on  a  green  wound,  I  said  noth 
ing.  In  perhaps  an  hour  or  so  the  first  sergeant's  call  was  sounded 
at  the  adjutant's  tent,  which  meant  a  detail.  I  responded  to  the  call, 
and  the  Sergeant-Major,  consulting  the  regimental  detail  slip  he 
held  in  his  hand,  told  me  he  wanted  a  corporal  and  five  privates 
from  my  company,  with  two  days'  rations,  to  help  make  up  a  scout 
ing  party  going  up  White  river  on  a  steamboat,  and  for  them  to 
report  in  fifteen  minutes.  That  caught  old  Press,  and  I  went  to  his 
shack  expecting  a  scene.  He  was  found  lying  on  his  bunk,  in  his 
drawers  and  shirt — as  usual  in  such  emergencies.  I  proceeded  to 
detail  him  as  one  of  the  scouting  party,  and  told  him  to  be  all  ready 


214  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

within  fifteen  minutes.  In  the  meantime,  the  weather  had 
changed,  and  a  disagreeable,  drizzling  rain  was  falling.  Press 
heaved  a  deep  sigh  when  informed  of  his  detail,  and  began  to  beg 
and  protest.  I  told  him  that  the  doctor  had  refused  to  excuse  him, 
that  he  was  the  next  man  on  the  roll  for  duty,  that  I  had  no  dis 
cretion  in  the  matter,  and  he  would  have  to  get  ready  and  go.  But, 
if  he  was  feeling  worse,  I  would  go  with  him  again  to  the  doctor, 
and  request  him  to  look  further  into  his  case.  Press  sprang  out  of 
his  bunk  with  a  bound,  and  grabbed  his  trousers.  "Before  I'll  ever 
go  again,"  he  said,  "to  that  hawk-nosed  old  blankety-blank-blank, 
to  get  excused  from  duty,  I'll  see  him  in  hell  further  than  a  pigeon 
can  fly  in  a  leap  year.  He  hasn't  got  sense  enough,  anyhow,  to 
doctor  an  old  dominecker  hen  that  is  sick  with  a  sore  [anus] ,  much 
less  a  civilized  human  being.  You  could  let  me  off  this  detail,  if 
you  wanted  to,  and  let  me  tell  you,  Stillwell,  if  this  trip  kills  me, 
which  it  probably  will,  I  want  you  to  remember,  as  long  as  you  live, 
that  the  responsibility  for  my  death  lies  on  your  head !"  This  last 
statement,  I  will  confess,  rather  staggered  me,  and  had  it  been 
delivered!  in  a  weak  and  pitiful  tone,  there  is  no  telling  what  I! 
might  have  done.  But  he  didn't  "roar"  me  "as  gently  as  a  sucking 
dove,"  by  a  long  shot,  for  his  voice  was  full  and  loud,  and  quivering 
with  energy  and  power.  So  I  made  no  response  to  this  dire  pre 
diction;  Press  got  ready,  and  went.  The  weather  cleared  up  in  a 
few  hours,  and  was  bright  and  pleasant,  but  nevertheless  I  be 
came  very  uneasy  about  Press.  If  the  old  fellow  really  was  sick, 
and  if,  by  any  possibility,  this  detail  should  result  in  his  death, 
why,  then,  I  felt  that  his  last  words  would  haunt  me  as  long  as  I 
lived.  I  waited  anxiously  for  the  return  of  the  scouting  party, 
and  when  the  whistle  of  the  boat  was  heard  on  its  arrival  at  the 
Bluff,  went  at  once  to  the  landing  to  learn  the  fate  of  Press,  and 
stood  on  the  bank  where  the  men  could  be  seen  as  they  came 
ashore.  Presently  here  came  Press,  very  much  alive,  and  looking 
fine !  He  bore,  transfixed  on  his  bayonet,  a  home-cured  ham  of  an 
Arkansas  hog;  the  tail  feathers  of  a  chicken  were  ostentatiously 
protruding  from  the  mouth  of  his  haversack,  and  which  receptacle 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  215 

was  also  stuffed  well-nigh  to  bursting  with  big,  toothsome  yams. 
And  later  the  fact  was  developed  that  his  canteen  was  full  of  sor 
ghum  molasses.  As  he  trudged  up  the  road  cut  through  the  bank, 
his  step  was  springy  and  firm,  his  face  was  glowing  with  health, 
and  beaded  with  perspiration.  I  felt  greatly  relieved  and  happy, 
and,  inspired  by  the  joy  of  the  moment,  called  to  him:  "Hello, 
Press !  You  seem  to  be  all  right!"  He  glanced  up  at  me,  and  in  a 
sort  of  sheepish  manner  responded:  "Ya-a-ss.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  the  trip  'greed  with  me."  And  from  this  time  on,  I  had  no 
more  trouble  with  old  Press.  He  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  cut  out 
completely  his  old-time  malingering  practices,  and  thenceforward 
was  a  good,  faithful  soldier.  We  were  in  some  close  places  after 
wards,  and  he  never  flinched,  but  stood  up  to  the  work  like  a  man. 
He  was  mustered  out  with  the  rest  of  us  in  September,  1865,  and 
after  some  going  and  coming,  settled  down  in  Peoria  county,  Illi 
nois,  where  he  died  March  15,  1914,  at  the  age  of  nearly  eighty- 
five  years. 


21 G  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  REGIMENT  GOES  HOME  ON  VETERAN  FURLOUGH.— 
INTERVIEW  WITH  GEN.  W.  T.  SHERMAN  AFTER  THE 
WAR.— A  SHORT  TOUR  OF  SOLDIERING  AT  CHES 
TER,  ILLINOIS.— AUGUST,  SEPTEMBER, 
OCTOBER,  1864. 

After  our  return  from  the  Clarendon  affair,  we  remained  in 
camp  at  Devall's  Bluff,  where  nothing  more  important  occurred 
than  drilling,  reviews,  inspections,  and  the  like.  The  summer  was 
rapidly  passing  away,  and  still  the  regiment  had  not  received  the 
30-day  furlough  promised  us  when  we  veteranized.  Nearly  all  the 
other  regiments  in  the  department  that  had  re-enlisted  had  re 
ceived  theirs,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  poor  old  61st  Illinois  had  been 
"lost  in  the  shuffle."  The  boys  began  to  get  a  little  impatient  about 
this,  and  somewhat  disposed  to  grumble,  which  was  only  natural. 
But  on  August  8th  the  paymaster  made  us  a  visit,  paid  us  six 
months'  pay  and  our  veteran  bounty,  and  then  the  prospect  for  the 
furlough  began  to  brighten,  and  we  were  assured  by  our  officers 
that  we  had  not  much  longer  to  wait.  And  sure  enough,  on  Aug 
ust  14th  we  started  home.  We  left  the  recruits  and  non-veterans 
at  Devall's  Bluff,  to  which  we  expected  to  return  on  the  expiration 
of  ^ur  furlough,  but  the  Fates  willed  otherwise,  as  will  be  seen 
later.  When  we  filed  on  board  the  steamboat  that  August  morning, 
the  old  regiment,  as  an  organization,  was  leaving  Arkansas  for 
ever. 

I  will  say  here  that  I  have  always  regretted,  and  shall  regret  as 
long  as  I  live,  that  after  the  capture  of  Vicksburg,  the  regiment 
happened  to  get  switched  off  into  Arkansas.  We  thereby  were 
taken  away  from  the  big  armies,  and  out  of  the  main  currents  of 
the  war,  where  great  deeds  were  being  done,  and  history  made. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  217 

Of  course  we  couldn't  help  it ;  we  had  no  choice ;  and,  as  I  have  re 
marked  before,  the  common  soldier  can  only  do  what  those  in 
authority  direct.  As  connected  with  this  subject,  I  will  here  tell 
the  story  of  a  little  conversation  I  had  with  Gen.  W.  T.  Sherman, 
at  his  office  in  Washington  in  February,  1883.  I  had  gone  to  that 
city  on  a  business  matter,  and  while  there  met  Col.  P.  B.  Plumb, 
then  one  of  the  senators  from  Kansas.  In  the  course  of  our  con 
versation  he  asked  if  there  were  any  of  the  "big  bugs"  in  Washing 
ton  I  wanted  to  see, — if  so,  he  would  be  glad  to  take  me  around 
and  introduce  me.  I  replied  that  there  were  only  two;  that  just  as 
a  matter  of  curiosity  I  would  like  to  see  President  Arthur,  but  I 
really  was  very  desirous  of  having  a  little  visit  with  Gen.  Sher 
man.  Plumb  laughed,  said  that  my  desires  were  modest,  and  made 
a  date  with  me  when  he  would  take  me  to  see  the  President  and 
Gen.  Sherman.  At  the  time  appointed  we  went,  first  to  the  White 
House,  where  we  met  the  President.  I  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
after  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  retired  to  the  background. 
The  President  and  Plumb  talked  a  minute  or  two  about  some  public 
matter,  and  then  we  left.  "Now,"  said  Plumb,  "we'll  go  and  see 
'Uncle  Billy'."  Sherman  was  then  the  General  of  the  Army,  and 
had  his  office,  as  I  now  remember,  in  the  War  Department  build 
ing,  near  the  White  House.  On  entering  his  office,  we  found  him 
seated  at  a  desk,  writing.  I  had  seen  him  previously  several  times, 
but  had  no  acquaintance  with  him  whatever.  Plumb  introduced  me 
to  him,  saying,  as  he  gave  my  name,  that  I  was  one  of  his  "boys." 
The  General  dropped  his  pen,  shook  hands  with  me  heartily,  and  at 
once  began  talking.  I  think  he  was  the  most  interesting  talker  I 
ever  have  known.  He  had  lived  a  life  of  incessant  activity,  had 
done  great  things,  and  had  mingled  with  great  men,  hence  he  was 
never  at  a  loss  for  an  engaging  topic.  After  a  while  the  mono 
logue  lulled,  and  gave  me  the  opportunity  for  which  I  had  been 
patiently  waiting.  "General,"  I  began,  "there  is  an  incident  con 
nected  with  your  military  career  during  the  Civil  War  that  I  have 
wanted  for  some  time  to  speak  to  you  about,  and,  if  agreeable,  will 
do  so  now."  "Huh,"  said  he,  "what  is  it?"  It  was  interesting, 


218  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

and  a  little  amusing  to  me  at  the  time,  to  see  the  instantaneous 
change  that  came  over  him.  His  face  darkened,  his  eyes  con 
tracted,  and  a  scowl  appeared  on  his  brow.  His  appearance  and 
manner  said,  almost  as  plain  as  words :  "Now  here's  a  smart  young 
Aleck,  who  never  had  a  greater  command  than  a  picket  post  of 
three  men,  who  is  going  to  tell  me  how  he  thinks  I  should  have 
fought  a  battle."  Resuming,  I  said:  "Some  years  ago  I  read  Gen. 
Badeau's  'Life  of  Grant,'  and  found  published  therein  a  letter  from 
Gen.  Grant  to  you,  written  some  time  in  the  fall  of  1863,  when  you 
were  marching  across  the  country  from  Memphis  to  reinforce 
him  at  Chattanooga,  in  which  Grant  said,  in  substance,  'Urge  on 
SteeJe  the  necessity  of  sending  you  Kimball's  division  of  the  Six 
teenth  Corps.'  *General,"  said  I,  "that  meant  us;  it  meant  me; 
for  my  regiment  was  in  Kimball's  division,  with  Gen.  Steele,  in 
Arkansas.  Now  my  point  is,  I  am  afraid  that  you  didn't  'urge' 
Steele  strongly  enough,  for  we  never  got  to  you,  and,"  I  continued 
(in  a  tone  of  deep  and  sincere  earnestness),  "consequently  we  miss 
ed  Missionary  Ridge,  the  campaign  of  Atlanta,  the  March  to  the 
Sea,  and  the  campaign  of  the  Carolinas, — and  I  shall  regret  it  as 
long  as  I  live!"  I  noted  with  interest  the  change  in  the  old  f'n- 
eral's  countenance  as  I  made  my  little  speech.  His  face  lightdr 
his  eyes  sparkled,  the  scowl  disappeared,  and  when  I  concludtu-'he 
laughed  heartily.  "Didn't  need  you;  didn't  need  you,"  he  said; 
"had  men  enough, — and,  let  me  tell  you, — Steele  needed  eVery  d — d 
man  he  had."  It  was  quite  evident  that  the  General  enjoyed  the 
recital  of  my  little  alleged  grievance,  and  he  launched  into  a  most 
interesting  account  of  some  incidents  connected  with  the  campaigns 
I  had  mentioned.  I  became  fearful  that  I  was  imposing  on  his  good 
nature,  and  two  or  three  times  started  to  leave.  But  with  a  word 
or  gesture  he  would  detain  me,  and  keep  talking.  And  when  I 
finally  did  depart,  he  followed  me  out  into  the  hall,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder  in  a  most  fatherly  way,  said,  "Say!  When 
ever  you  are  in  Washington,  come  and  see  me!  Don't  be  afraid! 
*See  "Military  History  of  Ulysses  S.  Grant,"  by  Adam  Badeau,  Vol.  1, 
page  456. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  219 

I  like  to  see  and  talk  with  you  boys!"  and  with  a  hearty  shake  of 
the  hand  he  bade  me  good-by.  He  was  a  grand  old  man,  and  we 
common  soldiers  of  the  western  armies  loved  him. 

In  going  home  on  our  veteran  furlough,  the  regiment  went  by 
steamer  down  White  river,  thence  up  the  Mississippi  to  Cairo, 
where  we  debarked  and  took  the  cars,  and  went  to  Springfield, 
Illinois,  arriving  there  August  24th.  The  Mississippi  was  low, 
and  our  progress  up  the  river  was  very  slow.  Two  or  three  times 
our  boat  grounded  on  bars,  and  after  trying  in  vain  to  "spar  off," 
had  to  wait  until  some  other  boat  came  along,  and  pulled  us  off  by 
main  strength.  Near  Friar's  Point,  not  far  below  Helena,  where 
there  was  a  long,  shallow  bar,  the  captain  of  the  steamer  took  the 
precaution  to  lighten  his  boat  by  landing  us  all  on  the  west  bank 
of  thf*  river,  and  we  walked  along  the  river's  margin  for  two  or 
three  miles  to  the  head  of  the  bar,  where  the  boat  came  to  the 
shore,  #nd  took  us  on  again.  Our  officers  assured  us  that  our 
thirty  days  furlough  would  not  begin  until  the  day  we  arrived  at 
Springfield,  so  these  delays  did  not  worry  us,  and  we  endured  them 
with  much  composure. 

On  this  entire  homeward  trip,  on  account  of  a  matter  that  was 
r  personal,  I  was  in  a  state  of  nervous  uneasiness  and  anxiety 
nt.  .y  all  the  time.  As  heretofore  stated,  just  a  few  days  before 
starting  home  we  were  paid  six  months'  pay,  and  our  veteran 
bounty,  the  amount  I  received  being  $342.70.  Several  of  the  re 
cruits  and  non-veterans  whose  homes  were  in  my  neighborhood 
gave  me  different  amounts  that  had  been  paid  them,  with  the  re 
quest  that  I  take  this  money  home  and  hand  it  to  their  fathers,  or 
other  persons  they  designated.  So,  when  we  started,  I  had  the 
most  money  on  my  person  I  ever  had  had  before,  and  even  since. 
The  exact  amount  is  now  forgotten,  but  it  was  something  over  fif 
teen  hundred  dollars.  Of  nights  I  slept  on  the  hurricane  deck  of 
the  boat,  with  the  other  boys,  and  in  the  day  time  was  mingling 
constantly  with  the  enlisted  men,  and  with  all  that  money  in  my 
pocket.  Of  course,  I  said  nothing  about  it,  and  had  cautioned  the 
boys  who  trusted  me  with  this  business  also  to  say  nothing,  but 


220  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

whether  they  had  all  complied  with  my  request  I  didn't  know.  I 
kept  the  money  (which,  except  a  little  postal  currency,  was  all  in 
greenbacks)  in  my  inside  jacket  pocket  during  the  day  time,  didn't 
take  off  my  trousers  at  night,  and  then  stowed  the  bills  on  my  per 
son  at  a  place — well,  if  a  prowling  hand  had  invaded  the  locality,  it 
would  have  waked  me  quick !  But  I  finally  got  home  with  all  the 
money  intact,  duly  paid  the  trust  funds  over  to  the  proper  parties, 
and  then  felt  greatly  relieved. 

When  the  regiment  arrived  at  Springfield  we  stored  our 
muskets  and  accouterments  in  a  public  building,  and  then  dis 
persed  for  our  respective  homes.  I  arrived  at  the  Stillwell  home 
the  following  day,  August  25th,  and  received  a  hearty  welcome. 

But  the  admission  must  be  made  that  I  didn't  enjoy  this  fur 
lough  near  as  much  as  the  individual  one  of  the  preceding  autumn, 
for  reasons  I  will  state.  You  see,. we  were  all  at  home  now,  that  is, 
the  veterans,  and  there  were  several  hundred  of  us,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  citizens  thought  that  they  must  do  everything  in  their 
power  to  show  how  much  they  appreciated  us.  So  there  was  some 
thing  going  on  nearly  all  the  time;  parties,  oyster  suppers,  and 
gatherings  of  all  sorts.  There  was  a  big  picnic  affair  held  in  the 
woods  at  the  Sansom  Spring  which  was  attended  by  a  crowd  of 
people.  A  lawyer  came  down  from  Jerseyville  and  made  us  a 
long  speech  on  this  occasion,  in  which  he  refreshed  our  recollection 
as  to  our  brave  deeds  and  patriotic  services  in  battle,  and  in  camp 
and  field  generally,  which  was  doubtless  very  fine.  It  is  true,  I 
spent  several  very  happy  days  at  home,  with  my  own  folks,  but 
they  were  frequently  broken  in  on  by  the  neighbors,  coming  and 
p-oing,  who  wanted  to  see  and  talk  with  "Leander."  And  the  girls ! 
bless  their  hearts!  They  were  fairly  ready  to  just  fall  down  and 
worship  us.  But  I  was  young,  awkward,  and  exceedingly  bashful, 
and  can  now  see  clearly  that  I  didn't  respond  to  their  friendly  at 
tentions  with  the  same  alacrity  and  heartiness  that  would  have  ob 
tained  had  I  been,  say,  ten  years  older.  The  French  have  a  prov 
erb  with  a  world  of  meaning  in  it,  something  like  this :  "If  youth 
but  knew — if  old  age  could !"  But  probably  it  is  best  as  it  is. 


Lieut.  Colonel,  61st  Illinois  Infantry. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  221 

When  home  on  our  veteran  furlough  a  sad  event  occurred 
which  directly  affected  the  regiment,  and  which  it  can  be  truly 
said  every  member  thereof  sincerely  deplored.  This  was  the  death 
of  Lieut.  Col.  Simon  P.  Ohr.  He  never  was  a  strong  man,  physi 
cally,  and  the  hardships  and  exposures  incident  to  army  life  were 
really  the  cause  of  his  death.  He  died  at  his  home,  in  Carrollton, 
Illinois,  of  a  bronchial  affection,  on  September  14th,  1864.  He  was 
a  man  of  temperate  habits,  honest  and  upright,  and  a  sterling 
patriot.  As  an  officer,  he  was  kind,  careful  as  to  the  wants  and 
necessities  of  his  men,  and  in  battle,  cool,  clear-headed,  and  brave. 
In  due  course  of  time  Maj.  Daniel  Grass  was  appointed  to  the  of 
fice  of  Lieutenant-Colonel,  to  fill  the  vacancy  thus  created  by  the 
lamented  death  of  Col.  Ohr. 

The  regiment  rendezvoused  at  Springfield  on  September  26th, 
and  left  on  the  next  day,  on  the  cars,  went  to  St.  Louis,  and  were 
quartered  in  the  Hickory  Street  Barracks,  in  the  city.  Another 
"Price  Raid"  was  now  on.  Only  a  few  days  previously  Gen.  Sterling 
Price  with  a  strong  force,  including,  of  course,  Shelby's  cavalry, 
entered  southeast  Missouri,  and  the  day  we  arrived  at  St.  Louis  he 
showed  up  at  Pilot  Knob,  only  about  85  miles  south  of  the  city, 
where  some  sharp  fighting  occurred.  There  was  now  the  biggest 
kind  of  a  "scare"  prevailing  in  St.  Louis,  and,  judging  from  all  the 
talk  one  heard,  we  were  liable  to  hear  the  thunder  of  Price's  can 
non  on  the  outskirts  of  St.  Louis  any  day.  We  had  been  at  Hickory 
Street  Baracks  only  a  day  or  two,  when  my  company,  and  com 
panies  B  and  G,  were  detached  from  the  regiment,  embarked  on  a 
steamboat,  and  went  down  the  Mississippi  to  the  town  of  Chester, 
Illinois,  which  is  situated  on  the  Mississippi,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Kaskaskia  river.  We  were  sent  here  for  the  purpose,  as  we  under 
stood  at  the  time,  of  guarding  the  crossing  of  the  Mississippi  at 
this  place,  and  to  prevent  any  predatory  Confederate  raid  in  that 
vicinity.  We  were  quartered  in  some  large  vacant  warehouses  near 
the  river,  and  had  no  guard  duty  to  perform  except  a  guard  at  the 
ferry  landing,  and  a  small  one  over  our  commissary  stores.  Alto 
gether,  it  was  the  "softest"  piece  of  soldiering  that  fell  to  my  lot 


222  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

during  all  my  service.  We  had  roofs  over  our  heads  and  slept  at 
night  where  it  was  dry  and  warm,  it  was  ideal  autumn  weather,  and 
we  just  idled  around,  careless,  contented,  and  happy.  One  lovely 
October  day  Bill  Banfield  and  I  in  some  way  got  a  skiff,  and  early 
in  the  morning  rowed  over  the  river  to  the  Missouri  side,  and  spent 
the  day  there,  strolling  about  in  the  woods.  The  country  was  wild 
and  rough,  and  practically  in  a  state  of  nature.  We  confined  our 
rambling  to  the  river  bottom,  which  was  broad  and  extensive,  and 
densely  covered  with  a  primeval  forest.  Some  of  the  trees,  espe 
cially  the  sycamores  and  the  cottonwoods,  were  of  giant  size.  And 
the  woods  abounded  in  nuts  and  wild  fruits ;  hickory  nuts,  walnuts, 
pecans,  pawpaws,  big  wild  grapes, — and  persimmons,  but  the  latter 
were  not  yet  ripe.  This  locality  was  in  Perry  county,  Missouri,  and 
it  seemed  to  be  destitute  of  inhabitants;  we  saw  two  or  three  log 
cabins,  but  they  were  old,  decayed,  and  deserted.  We  had  brought 
some  bacon  and  hardtack  with  us  in  our  haversacks,  and  at  noon 
built  a  fire  and  had  an  army  dinner,  with  nuts  and  fruit  for  dessert. 
We  got  back  to  Chester  about  sundown,  having  had  a  most  inter 
esting  and  delightful  time. 

There  was  another  little  incident  that  happened  while  we  were 
at  Chester,  which  I  have  always  remembered  with  pleasure.  Be 
tween  companies  D  and  G  of  our  regiment  was  a  strong  bond  of 
friendship.  Many  of  the  boys  of  the  two  companies  had  lived  in 
the  same  neighborhood  at  home,  and  were  acquainted  with  each 
other  before  enlisting.  The  first  sergeant  of  G  was  Pressley  T. 
Rice,  a  grown  man,  and  some  five  or  six  years  my  senior.  He  came 
to  me  one  day  soon  after  our  arrival  at  Chester,  and  in  his  peculiar 
nasal  tone  said:  "Stillwell,  some  of  my  boys  think  that  when  we  are 
soldiering  here  in  'God's  Country,'  they  ought  to  have  soft  bread  to 
eat.  If  'D'  feels  the  same,  let's  go  down  to  the  mill,  and  buy  a  bar 
rel  of  flour  for  each  company,  and  give  the  boys  a  rest  on  hardtack." 
I  heartily  assented,  but  asked  what  should  we  do  about  paying  for 
it,  as  the  boys  were  now  pretty  generally  strapped.  Press  respond 
ed  that  we'd  get  the  flour  "on  tick,"  and  settle  for  it  at  our  next  pay 
day.  To  my  inquiry  if  we  should  take  Company  B  in  on  the  deal 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  223 

(the  other  company  with  us  at  Chester),  Press  dryly  responded  that 
B  could  root  for  themselves;  that  this  was  a  "cahootnership"  of  D 
and  G  only.  Without  further  ceremony  we  went  to  the  mill,  which 
was  a  fair-sized  concern,  and  situated,  as  I  now  remember,  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  town,  and  near  the  river  bank.  We  found  one 
of  the  proprietors,  and  Press  made  known  to  him  our  business,  in 
words  substantially  the  same  as  he  had  used  in  broaching  the  mat 
ter  to  me,  with  some  little  additional  explanation.  He  told  the  mil 
ler  that  the  only  bread  we  had  was  hardtack,  that  the  boys  accepted 
that  cheerfully  when  we  were  down  South,  but  that  here  in  "God's 
Country,"  in  our  home  State  of  Illinois,  they  thought  they  were 
entitled  t,o  "soft  bread,"  so  we  had  come  to  him  to  buy  two  barrels 
of  flour ;  that  the  boys  had  not  the  money  now  to  pay  for  it,  but  at 
our  next  pay  day  they  would,  and  we  would  see  to  it  that  the  money 
should  be  sent  him.  While  thus  talking,  the  miller  looked  at  us 
with  "narrowed  eyes,"  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  didn't  feel  a  bit  de 
lighted  with  the  proposition.  But  maybe  he  thought  that  if  he 
didn't  sell  us  the  flour,  we  might  take  it  anyhow,  so,  making  a  vir 
tue  of  necessity,  he  said  he  would  let  us  have  it,  the  price  of  the 
two  barrels  being,  as  I  now  remember,  seven  dollars.  I  produced  my 
little  memorandum  book,  and  requested  him  to  write  the  name  and 
address  of  his  firm  therein,  which  he  did,  in  pen  and  ink,  and  it  is 
there  yet,  in  that  same  little  old  book,  now  lying  open  before  me, 
and  reads  as  follows: 

"H.  C.  Cole  &  Co., 

Chester,  111." 

Well,  he  sent  us  the  flour,  and  D  and  G  had  soft  bread  the  balance 
of  the  time  we  were  at  Chester. 

I  will  now  anticipate  a  few  months,  in  order  to  finish  the  ac 
count  of  this  incident.  The  spring  of  1865  found  the  regiment  at 
Franklin,  Tennessee,  and  while  there  the  paymaster  made  us  a 
welcome  visit.  I  then  went  to  Press  Rice,  and  suggested  to  him 
that  the  time  had  now  come  for  us  to  pay  the  Chester  miller  for  his 
flour,  and  he  said  he  thought  so  too.  We  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  a 
|  tree  and  made  out  a  list  of  all  the  boys  of  our  respective  companies 


224  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

who,  at  Chester,  helped  eat  the  bread  made  from  the  flour,  and  who 
were  yet  with  us,  and  then  assessed  each  one  with  the  proper  sum 
he  should  contribute,  in  order  to  raise  the  entire  amount  required. 
Of  course  the  boys  pa.'d  it  cheerfully.  Press  turned  over  to  me  the 
proportionate  sum  of  his  company,  and  requested  me  to  attend  to 
the  rest  of  the  business,  which  I  did.  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  firm  of 
H.  C.  Cole  &  Co.,  calling  their  attention  to  the  fact  of  our  purchase 
from  them  of  two  barrels  of  flour  in  October  of  the  previous  year, 
and  then  went  on  to  say  that  several  of  the  boys  who  had  taken 
part  in  eating  the  bread  made  from  this  flour  had  since  then  been 
killed  in  battle,  or  died  of  diseases  incident  to  a  soldier's  life,  but 
there  were  yet  enough  of  us  left  to  pay  them  for  their  flour,  and 
that  I  here  inclosed  the  proper  sum.  (I  have  forgotten  in  just  what 
manner  or  form  it  was  sent,  but  think  it  was  by  express.)  In  due 
course  of  time  I  received  an  answer,  acknowledging  receipt  of  the 
money,  written  in  a  very  kind  and  complimentary  vein.  After 
heartily  thanking  us  for  the  payment,  the  letter  went  on  to  state 
that  in  all  the  business  dealings  of  H.  C.  Cole  &  Co.  with  Union 
soldiers  the  firm  had  been  treated  with  fairness  and  remarkable 
honesty,  and  they  sincerely  appreciated  it. 

Many  years  later  out  in  Kansas  I  met  a  man  who  had  lived  in 
Chester  during  the  war,  and  told  him  the  foregoing  little  story. 
He  said  he  knew  the  milling  firm  of  Cole  &  Co.  quite  well,  and  that 
during  the  war  they  were  most  intense  and  bitter  Copperheads,  and 
had  no  use  whatever  for  "Lincoln  hirelings,"  as  Union  soldiers  were 
sometimes  called  by  the  "Butternut"  element.  My  informant  was 
a  respectable,  truthful  man,  so  it  is  probable  that  his  statement 
was  correct.  It  served  to  throw  some  light  on  the  grim  conduct 
of  the  miller  with  whom  Press  and  I  dealt.  But  they  treated  us 
well,  and  if  they  were  of  the  type  above  indicated,  it  is  hoped  that 
the  little  experience  with  us  may  have  caused  them  to  have  a  some 
what  kindlier  feeling  for  Union  soldiers  than  the  one  they  may 
have  previously  entertained. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  225 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EXPEDITION  TO  NORTH  MISSOURI.— BACK  IN  TENNESSEE 

ONCE  MORE.— MURFREESBORO.— OCTOBER  AND 

NOVEMBER,  1864. 

On  October  14th  we  left  Chester  on  the  steamer  "A.  Jacobs," 
and  went  to  St.  Louis,  where  we  arrived  on  the  15th,  and  marched 
out  to  Laclede  Station,  about  six  miles  from  St.  Louis,  on  the  Pa 
cific  railroad,  where  we  found  the  balance  of  the  regiment.  There 
was  a  railroad  bridge  at  this  place,  over  a  small  stream,  and  I  sup 
pose  that  during  the  scare  at  St.  Louis  it  was  deemed  prudent  to 
have  a  force  here  to  guard  the  bridge.  On  October  19th  the  regi 
ment  left  Laclede,  and  went  by  rail  on  the  North  Missouri  railroad, 
to  Mexico,  in  Audrain  county,  Missouri,  about  110  miles  northwest 
of  St,  Louis.  Here  we  reported  to  Col.  Samuel  A.  Holmes,  Colonel 
of  the  40th  Missouri  Infantry.  We  left  Mexico  October  21st  and 
marched  northward  25  miles  to  Paris,  the  county  seat  of  Monroe 
county.  There  was  a  body  of  irregular  Confederate  cavalry,  sup 
posed  to  be  about  500  strong,  under  the  command  of  a  Col.  Mc- 
Daniel,  operating  in  this  region,  and  carrying  on  a  sort  of  predatory 
and  uncivilized  warfare.  We  learned  that  it  was  our  business  up 
here  to  bring  this  gang  to  battle,  and  destroy  them  if  possible,  or, 
failing  in  that,  to  drive  them  out  of  the  country.  Our  force  con 
sisted  of  about  70(*  infantry, — the  40th  Missouri  and  the  61st 
Illinois,  and  a  detachment  of  about  300  cavalry,  whose  state  and 
regimental  number  I  have  forgotten.  Our  cavalry  caught  up  with 
the  Confederates  at  Paris,  and  had  a  little  skirmish  with  them,  but 
before  the  infantry  could  get  on  the  ground  the  enemy  lit  out  as 
fast  as  their  horses  could  carry  them.  We  lay  that  night  at  Paris, 
and  the  next  day  (the  22nd)  marched  to  the  little  town  of  Florida, 
where  we  bivouacked  for  the  night.  It  was  a  small  place,  situated 
on  a  high,  timbered  ridge,  between  the  main  Salt  river  and  one  of 


226  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

its  forks.  With  the  exception  that  it  was  not  a  county  seat,  it  was 
practically  a  counterpart  of  the  little  village  of  Springfield,  Arkan 
sas,  hereinbefore  mentioned.  It  had  only  one  street  of  any  conse 
quence,  and  all  up  and  down  this  street,  in  several  places  right  in 
the  middle  thereof,  were  grand,  imposing  native  trees,  such  as  oaks 
and  hickories.  But  the  place  was  now  totally  deserted,  and  looked 
lonesome  and  desolate.  I  ascertained  several  years  later  that  it 
was  the  birthplace  of  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  the  author, — better 
known  under  his  pen-name,  "Mark  Twain."  It  is  also  an  in 
teresting  circumstance  that  the  first  military  operation  conducted 
by  Gen.  U.  S.  Grant  was  a  movement  in  the  summer  of  1861  on 
this  little  village  of  Florida,  with  the  intention  and  expectation  of 
giving  battle  to  a  Confederate  force  in  camp  near  the  town. 
(Grant's  Memoirs,  1st  Edition,  Vol.  1,  pp.  248  et  seq.) 

The  next  day  (the  23rd)  we  turned  south,  and  marched  to  the 
little  town  of  Santa  Fe,  and  the  next  day  thereafter  back  to  Paris, 
where  we  remained  a  day.  On  the  26th  we  went  to  Middle  Grove, 
and  on  the  following  day  again  reached  the  railroad  at  Allen,  some 
distance  northwest  of  Mexico,  where  we  first  started  out.  It 
would  seem  that  this  little  station  of  Allen  has,  since  the  war,  dis 
appeared  from  the  map, — at  least,  I  can't  find  it.  On  this  ex- 
pedjtion  the  infantry  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  armed  Confed 
erate,  but  the  object  of  the  movement  was  accomplished.  We  kept 
after  our  foes  so  persistently  that  they  left  that  locality,  crossed 
the  Missouri  river,  joined  Price's  army,  and  with  it  left  the  State.  At 
this  time  the  section  of  country  over  which  we  marched  in  the  pur 
suit  of  McDaniel's  command  is  now  all  gridironed  by  railroads,  but 
in  1864  there  were  only  two,  the  North  Missouri,  running  north 
west  from  St.  Louis  to  Macon,  and  the  Hannibal  and  St.  Joe,  con 
necting  those  two  places  and  extending  from  the  Mississippi  river 
on  the  east  to  the  Missouri  river  on  the  west.  We  always  remem 
bered  this  scout  up  in  north  Missouri  with  feelings  of  comfort  and 
satisfaction.  Compared  with  some  of  our  Arkansas  marches,  it 
was  just  a  pleasure  excursion.  The  roads  were  in  good  condition, 
and  the  weather  was  fine; — .ideal  Indian  Summer  days.  And  in 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  22? 

the  fruit  and  vegetable  line  we  lived  high.  The  country  through 
which  we  passed  abounded  in  the  finest  of  winter  apples,  Little 
Romanites  and  Jennetings  being  the  chief  varieties.  The  farmers 
had  gathered  and  piled  them  in  the  orchards  in  conical  heaps  and 
covered  them  with  straw  and  earth  sufficient  to  keep  them  from 
freezing.  We  soon  learned  what  those  little  earth  mounds  signi 
fied,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  confiscated  the  apples  instanter. 
And  the  country  was  full  of  potatoes,  cabbages,  and  turnips,  on 
which  we  foraged  with  great  liberality.  If  any  apology  for  this 
line  of  conduct  should  be  thought  proper,  it  may  be  sai'd  that  many 
of  the  farms  were  at  this  time  abandoned,  the  owners  having  fled 
to  the  garrisoned  towns  to  escape  the  Confederate  raiders ;  further, 
if  we  hadn't  taken  this  stuff  our  adversaries  would,  if  by  chance 
they  happened  again  to  infest  that  locality.  Anyhow,  a  hungry 
soldier  is  not  troubled,  in  such  matters,  by  nice  ethical  distinctions. 
We  remained  at  Allen  on  the  28th,  and  until  the  evening  of  the  fol 
lowing  day,  when  we  left  there  on  the  cars  for  St.  Louis.  But 
sometime  near  midnight  the  train  stopped  at  Montgomery  City, 
about  midway  between  Allen  and  St.  Louis,  we  were  roused  up,  and 
ordered  to  get  off  and  form  in  line,  which  we  did.  Our  officers 
then  proceeded  to  give  us  careful  instructions,  to  the  effect  that  a 
band  of  Confederate  cavalry  was  believed  to  be  at  Danville,  out  in 
the  country  a  few  miles  south,  and  that  we  were  going  there  to 
surprise  and  capture  this  party,  if  possible.  We  were  strictly  en 
joined  to  refrain  from  talking  and  singing,  and  to  remain  ab 
solutely  silent  in  ranks.  We  then  fell  into  column  and  marched  for 
Danville,  where  we  arrived  an  hour  or  so  before  dawn.  But  our 
birds  (if  there  when  we  started  from  Montgomery)  had  flown — 
there  were  no  Confederates  there.  A  party  of  guerrillas  had  been 
in  the  town  about  two  weeks  before,  who  had  murdered  five  or  six 
unarmed  citizens,  (including  one  little  boy  about  eight  or  ten  years 
old,)  and  it  was  believed  when  we  started  to  march  out  here 
that  this  gang,  or  some  of  them,  had  returned.  The  party  that 
had  previously  raided  Danville  were  under  the  command  of  one 
Bill  Anderson,  a  blood-thirsty  desperado,  with  no  more  humanity 
about  him  than  an  Apache  Indian.  He  was  finally  killed  in  battle 


228  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

with  some  Union  troops  about  the  last  of  October,  1864.  When 
killed  there  was  found  on  his  person  a  commission  as  Colonel  in  the 
Confederate  army,  signed  by  Jefferson  Davis,  and  the  brow-band 
of  his  horse's  bridle  was  decorated  with  two  human  scalps.  (See 
"The  Civil  War  on  the  Border,"  by  Wiley  Britton,  Vol.  2,  p.  546.) 
He  was  of  that  class  of  men  of  which  Quantrell  and  the  James 
and  the  Younger  boys  were  fitting  types,  and  who  were  a  disgrace 
to  mankind. 

Sometime  during  the  day  (October  30th)  we  marched  back 
to  Montgomery  City,  got  on  the  cars,  and  again  started  for  St. 
Louis,  where  we  arrived  the  next  day,  and  marched  out  to  old  Ben- 
ton  Barracks,  where  we  took  up  our  quarters  for  the  time  being. 
So  we  were  once  more  " tenting  on  the  old  camp  ground,"  after  an 
absence  of  nearly  three  years.  But  the  place  did  not  look  as  it 
did  before.  It  seemed  old  and  dilapidated  and  there  were  only  a 
few  troops  there.  As  compared  with  the  active,  stirring  con 
ditions  that  obtained  there  in  February  and  March,  1862,  it  now 
looked  indescribably  dejected  and  forlorn.  But  our  stay  here  this 
time  was  short.  We  left  on  November  5th,  marched  into  St.  Louis, 
and  down  to  the  wharf,  where  we  embarked  on  the  steamer  "David 
Tatum,"  and  started  up  the  Mississippi.  We  were  puzzled  for  a 
while  as  to  what  this  meant,  but  soon  found  out.  We  were  told 
that  the  regiment  was  being  sent  home  to  vote  at  the  ensuing 
presidential  election,  which  would  occur  on  November  8th,  that  we 
would  take  the  cars  at  Alton  and  go  to  Springfield,  and  from  there 
to  our  respective  homes.  We  surely  were  glad  that  we  were  going 
to  be  granted  this  favor.  The  most  of  the  States  had  enacted  laws 
authorizing  their  soldiers  to  vote  in  the  field,  but  the  Illinois 
legislature  since  1862  had  been  Democratic  in  politics,  and  that 
party  at  that  time  in  our  State  was  not  favorably  disposed  to  such  a 
measure.  Consequently  the  legislature  in  office  had  failed  to  pass 
any  law  authorizing  their  soldier  constituents  to  vote  when  away 
from  home.  We  arrived  at  Alton  about  9  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
the  5th,  and  found  a  train  waiting  us  (box  cars ),  which  we  at  once 
climbed  on.  We  had  just  got  our  guns  and  other  things  stowed  away 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  229 

in  corners,  and  were  proceeding  to  make  ourselves  comfortable  for  a 
night  ride  to  Springfield,  when  Lt.  Wallace  came  down  from  the  of 
ficers'  caboose,  and  stopped  at  the  Co.  D  car.  "Boys,"  he  called,  "get 
out,  and  fall  in  line  here  by  the  track.  The  order  to  go  to  Springfield 
has  been  countermanded  by  telegraphic  dispatch  and  we  are  ordered 
back  to  St.  Louis."  "What!  What's  that?"  we  exclaimed,  in  as 
tonishment.  "It's  so,"  said  Wallace,  in  a  tone  of  deep  regret;  "get 
out."  "Well,  don't  that  beat  hell !"  was  the  next  remark  of  about 
a  dozen  of  us.  But  orders  are  orders,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  obey.  The  curses  of  the  disappointed  soldiers  in  thus  hav 
ing  this  cup  of  satisfaction  dashed  from  their  lips  were  "not  loud, 
but  deep."  But  we  all  swung  down  from  the  cars,  fell  in,  and 
marched  back  to  and  on  board  the  "David  Tatum,"  and  were  back 
at  the  wharf  in  St.  Louis  by  next  morning.  We  stacked  arms  on 
the  levee,  and  the  next  morning,  November  7th,  left  St.  Louis  on 
the  steamer  "Jennie  Brown,"  headed  down  stream.  So  here  we 
were  again  on  the  broad  Mississippi,  duplicating  our  beginning  of 
March,  1862,  and  once  more  bound  for  "Dixie's  Land."  By  this 
time  we  had  become  philosophical  and  indifferent  in  regard  to  the 
ups  and  downs  of  our  career.  If  we  had  been  ordered  some  night 
to  be  ready  the  next  morning  to  start  to  California  or  Maine,  the 
order  would  have  been  treated  with  absolute  composure,  and  af 
ter  a  few  careless  or  sarcastic  remarks,  we  would  have  turned  over 
and  been  asleep  again  in  about  a  minute.  We  had  made  up  our 
minds  that  we  were  out  to  see  the  war  through,  and  were  deter 
mined  in  our  conviction  that  we  were  going  to  win  in  the  end. 

Election  day,  November  8th,  was  densely  foggy,  so  much  so 
that  the  captain  of  our  steamboat  thought  it  not  prudent  to  pro 
ceed,  so  the  boat  tied  up  that  day  and  night  at  the  little  town  of 
Wittenburg,  on  the  Missouri  shore.  Mainly  to  pass  away  the  time, 
the  officers  concluded  to  hold  a  "mock"  regimental  presidential 
election.  The  most  of  the  line  officers  were  Democrats,  and  were 
supporting  Gen.  McClellan  for  President  in  opposition  to  Mr.  Lin 
coln,  and  they  were  quite  confident  that  a  majority  of  the  regiment 
favored  McClellan,  so  they  were  much  in  favor  of  holding  an 


230  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

election.  An  election  board  was  chosen,  fairly  divided  between  the 
supporters  of  the  respective  candidates,  and  the  voting  began.  As 
our  votes  wouldn't  count  in  the  official  result,  every  soldier,  regard 
less  of  age,  was  allowed  to  vote.  But  at  this  time  I  was  a  sure- 
enough  legal  voter,  having  attained  my  twenty-first  year  on  the 
16th  of  the  preceding  September.  You  may  rest  assured  that  I 
voted  for  "Uncle  Abe"  good  and  strong.  When  the  votes  were 
counted,  to  the  astonishment  of  nearly  all  of  us,  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
found  to  have  sixteen  majority.  As  the  regiment  was  largely 
Democratic  when  it  left  Illinois  in  February,  1862,  this  vote  show 
ed  that  the  political  opinions  of  the  rank  and  file  had,  in  the  mean 
time,  undergone  a  decided  change. 

We  left  Wittenburg  on  the  forenoon  of  the  9th,  but  owing  to 
the  foggy  conditions  our  progress  was  very  slow.  We  reached 
Cairo  on  the  10th,  and  from  there  proceeded  up  the  Ohio,  and  on 
the  llth  arrived  at  Paducah,  Kentucky,  where  we  debarked,  and 
went  into  camp.  We  remained  here  nearly  two  weeks,  doing  noth 
ing  but  the  ordinary  routine  of  camp  duty,  so  life  here  was  quite 
uneventful.  Paducah  was  then  an  old,  sleepy,  dilapidated,  and 
badly  decayed  river  town,  with  a  population  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war  of  about  four  thousand.  After  our  brief  stay  here  terminated, 
I  never  was  at  the  place  again  until  in  October,  1914,  when  I  was 
there  for  about  a  day,  which  was  devoted  to  rambling  about  the 
town.  The  flight  of  fifty  years  had  made  great  changes  in  Pa 
ducah.  It  now  had  a  population  of  about  twenty-five  thousand,  four 
different  lines  of  railroad,  street  cars,  electric  lights,  and  a  full 
supply  generally  of  all  the  other  so-called  "modern  conveniences." 
On  this  occasion  I  hunted  faithfully  and  persistently  for  the  old 
camp  ground  of  the  regiment  in  1864,  but  couldn't  find  it,  nor  even 
any  locality  that  looked  like  it. 

On  the  evening  of  November  24th  the  regiment  left  Paducah 
on  the  little  stern-wheel  steamboat  "Rosa  D,"  which  steamed  up 
the  Ohio  river  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the  Cumberland,  there 
turned  to  the  right,  and  proceeded  to  ascend  that  stream.  That 
move  told  the  story  of  our  probable  destination,  and  indicated  to 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  231 

us  that  we  were  doubtless  on  our  way  to  Nashville  to  join  the 
army  of  Gen.  Thomas.  There  was  another  boat  that  left  Paducah 
the  same  time  we  did,  the  "Masonic  Gem,"  a  stern-wheeler  about 
the  same  size  of  our  boat.  It  was  also  transporting  a  regiment  of 
soldiers,  whose  State  and  regimental  number  I  do  not  now  remem 
ber.  The  captains  of  the  two  boats,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
lashed  their  vessels  together,  side  by  side,  and  in  this  manner  we 
made  the  greater  part  of  the  trip.  In  going  up  the  Cumberland  the 
regiment  lost  two  men  by  drowning;  Henry  Miner,  of  Co.  D,  and 
Perry  Crochett,  of  Co.  G.  There  was  something  of  a  mystery  in 
regard  to  the  death  of  Miner.  He  was  last  seen  about  nine  o'clock 
one  evening  on  the  lower  deck  of  the  boat,  close  to  where  the  two 
boats  were  lashed  together.  It  was  supposed  that  in  some  manner 
he  missed  his  footing  and  fell  between  the  boats,  and  was  at  once 
sucked  under  by  the  current  and  drowned.  His  cap  was  discovered 
next  morning  on  the  deck  near  the  place  where  he  was  last  ob 
served,  but  no  other  vestige  of  him  was  ever  found.  The  other  sol 
dier,  Perry  Crochett,  stumbled  and  fell  into  the  river  in  the  day 
time,  from  the  after  part  of  the  hurricane  deck  of  the  boat.  He 
was  perhaps  stunned  by  the  fall,  for  he  just  sank  like  a  stone. 
The  boats  stopped,  and  a  skiff  was  at  once  lowered  and  manned,  and 
rowed  out  to  the  spot  where  he  disappeared,  and  which  lingered 
around  there  a  short  time,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  come  to  the 
surface.  His  little  old  wool  hat  was  floating  around  on  the  tops 
of  the  waves,  but  poor  Perry  was  never  seen  again.  There  was 
nothing  that  could  be  done,  so  the  skiff  came  back  to  the  boat,  was 
hoisted  aboard,  the  bells  rang  the  signal  "go  ahead,"  and  we  went 
on.  Miner  and  Crochett  were  both  young  men,  about  my  own  age, 
and  had  been  good  and  brave  soldiers.  Somehow  it  looked  hard 
and  cruel  that  after  over  three  years'  faithful  service  they  were 
fated  at  last  to  lose  their  lives  by  drowning  in  the  cold  waters  of 
the  Cumberland,  and  be  devoured  by  catfish  and  snapping  turtles,— 
but  such  are  among  the  chances  in  the  life  of  a  soldier. 

On  our  way  up  the  Cumberland  we  passed  the  historic  Fort 
Donelson,  where  Gen.  Grant  in  February,   1862,  gained  his  first 


232  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

great  victory.  There  was,  at  that  time,  de.sperate  and  bloody 
fighting  at  and  near  the  gray  earthen  walls  of  the  old  fort.  Now 
there  was  only  a  small  garrison  of  Union  troops  here,  and  with 
that  exception,  the  place  looked  about  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  some 
obscure  country  graveyard. 

We  arrived  at  Nashville  after  dark  on  the  evening  of  the  27th, 
remained  on  the  boat  that  night,  debarked  the  next  morning,  and 
in  the  course  of  that  day  (the  28th)  took  the  cars  on  what  was 
then  known  as  the  Nashville  and  Chattanooga  railroad,  and  went 
to  Murfreesboro,  about  thirty  miles  southeast  of  Nashville.  Here 
we  went  into  camp  inside  of  Fortress  Rosecrans,  a  strong  and  ex 
tensive  earthwork  built  under  the  direction  of  Gen.  Rosecrans 
soon  after  the  battle  of  Murfreesboro,  in  January,  1863. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  OVERALL'S  CREEK.— MURFREESBORO.- 

DECEMBER,  1864. 

The  invasion  of  Tennessee  by  the 'Confederate  army  under  the 
command  of  Gen.  J.  B.  Hood  was  now  on,  and  only  a  day  or  two 
after  our  arrival  at  Murfreesboro  we  began  to  hear  the  sullen, 
deep-toned  booming  of  artillery  towards  the  west,  and  later  north 
west  in  the  direction  of  Nashville.  And  this  continued,  with  more 
or  less  frequency,  until  the  termination,  on  December  16th,  of  the 
battle  -of  Nashville,  which  resulted  in  the  defeat  of  the  Confed 
erates,  and  their  retreat  from  the  State.  About  December  3rd, 
the  Confederate  cavalry,  under  the  command  of  our  old  acquaint 
ance,  Gen.  N.  B.  Forrest,  swung  in  between  Nashville  and  Mur 
freesboro,  tore  up  the  railroad,  and  cut  us  off  from  Nashville  for 
about  two  weeks.  The  Union  forces  at  Murfreesboro  at  this  time 
consisted  of  about  6,000  men, — infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery, 
(but  principally  infantry,)  under  the  command  of  Gen  L.  H.  Rous 
seau. 

December  4th,  1864,  was  a  pleasant,  beautiful  day  at  old  Mur 
freesboro.  The  sun  was  shining  bright  and  warm,  the  air  was  still, 
and  the  weather  conditions  were  like  those  at  home  during  Indian 
summer  in  October.  Along  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
without  a  single  note  of  preliminary  warning,  suddenly  came  the 
heavy  "boom"  of  cannon  close  at  hand,  in  a  northwesterly  direction. 
We  at  once  ran  up  on  the  ramparts,  and  looking  up  the  railroad 
towards  Nashville,  could  plainly  see  the  blue  rings  of  powder-smoke 
curling  upwards  above  the  trees.  But  we  didn't  look  long. 
Directly  after  we  heard  the  first  report,  the  bugles  in  our  camp  and 
others  began  sounding  "Fall  in !"  We  hastily  formed  in  line,  and 
in  a  very  short  time  the  61st  Illinois  and  two  other  regiments  of 
infantry,  the  8th  Minnesota  and  the  174th  Ohio,  with  a  section  of 


234  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

artillery,  all  under  the  command  of  Gen.  R.  H.  Milroy,  filed  out  of 
Fortress  Rosecrans,  and  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  this  cannon 
ading.  About  four  miles  out  from  Murfreesboro  we  came  to  the 
scene  of  the  trouble.  The  Confederates  had  opened  with  their 
artillery  on  one  of  our  railroad  block -houses,  and  were  trying  to  de 
molish  or  capture  it.  The  13th  Indiana  Cavalry  had  preceded  us 
to  the  spot,  and  were  skirmishing  with  the  enemy.  Our  regiment 
formed  in  line  on  the  right  of  the  pike,  the  Minnesota  regiment  to 
our  righ;t,  and  the  Ohio  regiment  on  the  left,  while  our  artillery 
took  a  position  on  some  higher  ground  near  the  pike,  and  began 
exchanging  shots  with  that  of  the  enemy.  The  position  of  our 
regiment  was  on  the  hither  slope  of  a  somewhat  high  ridge,  in  the 
woods,  with  a  small  stream  called  Overall's  creek  running  parallel 
to  our  front.  We  were  standing  here  at  ease,  doing  nothing,  and 
I  slipped  up  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  "to  see  what  I  could  see." 
The  ground  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek  was  lower  than  ours, 
and  was  open,  except  a  growth  of  rank  grass  and  weeds.  And  I 
could  plainly  see  the  skirmishers  of  the  enemy,  in  butternut  cloth 
ing,  skulking  in  the  grass  and  weeds,  and  occasionally  firing  in  our 
direction.  They  looked  real  tempting,  so  I  hurried  back  to  the 
regiment,  and  going  to  Capt.  Keeley,  told  him  that  the  Confederate 
skirmishers  were  just  across  the  creek,  in  plain  sight,  and  asked 
him  if  I  couldn't  slip  down  the  brow  of  the  ridge  and  take  a  few 
shots  at  them.  He  looked  at  me  kind  of  queerly,  and  said:  "You 
stay  right  where  you  are,  and  tend  to  your  own  business.  You'll 
have  plenty  of  shooting  before  long."  I  felt  a  little  bit  hurt  at  his 
remark,  but  made  no  reply,  and  resumed  my  place  in  the  ranks. 
But  he  afterwards  made  me  a  sort  of  apology  for  his  brusque  re 
proof,  saying  he  had  no  desire  to  see  me  perhaps  throw  my  life 
away  in  a  performance  not  within  the  scope  of  my  proper  and  nec 
essary  duty.  And  he  was  right,  too,  in  his  prediction,  that  there 
would  soon  be  "plenty  of  shooting."  I  had  just  taken  my  place  in 
the  ranks  when  a  mounted  staff  officer  came  galloping  up,  and  ac 
costing  a  little  group  of  our  line  officers,  asked,  with  a  strong  Ger 
man  accent,  "Iss  ziss  ze  61st  Illinois?"  and  on  being  told  that  it 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  235 

was,  next  inquired  for  Col.  Grass,  who  was  pointed  out  to  him. 
He  rode  to  the  Colonel,  who  was  near  at  hand,  saluted  him,  and  said, 
"Col.  Grass,  ze  Sheneral  sends  his  compliments  wiss  ze  order  zat 
you  immediately  deploy  your  regiment  as  skirmishers,  and  forth 
with  advance  on  ze  enemy,  right  in  your  front!"  The  recruits 
and  non-veterans  of  the  regiment  being  yet  in  Arkansas,  its 
present  effective  strength  hardly  exceeded  three  hundred  men,  so 
there  was  just  about  enough  of  us  to  make  a  sufficient  skirmish  line, 
on  this  occasion,  for  the  balance  of  the  command.  In  obedience  to 
the  aforesaid  order  the  regiment  was  promptly  deployed  as  skir 
mishers,  and  the  line  advanced  over  the  crest  of  the  ridge  in  our 
front,  and  down  the  slope  on  the  opposite  side.  At  the  bank  of  the 
creek  a  little  incident  befell  me,  which  serves  to  show  how  a  very 
trifling  thing  may  play  an  important  part  in  one's  fate.  I  happen 
ed  to  reach  the  creek  at  a  point  opposite  a  somewhat  deep  pool. 
The  water  was  clear  and  cold,  and  I  disliked  the  idea  of  having  wet 
feet  on  the  skirmish  line,  and  looked  around  for  a  place  where  it 
was  possible  to  cross  dry-shod.  A  rod  or  two  above  me  the  stream 
was  narrow,  and  where  it  could  be  jumped,  so  I  started  in  a  run 
for  that  place.  The  creek  bank  on  my  side  was  of  yellow  clay, 
high  and  perpendicular,  while  on  the  other  margin  the  bank  was 
quite  low,  and  the  ground  adjacent  sloped  upward  gently  and  grad 
ually.  While  running  along  the  edge  of  the  stream  to  the  fording 
place,  one  of  my  feet  caught  on  the  end  of  a  dead  root  projecting 
from  the  lower  edge  of  the  bank,  and  I  pitched  forward,  and  nearly 
fell.  At  the  very  instant  of  my  stumble, — "thud"  into  the  clay 
bank  right  opposite  where  I  would  have  been,  if  standing,  went  a 
bullet  fired  by  a  Confederate  skirmisher.  He  probably  had  taken 
deliberate  aim  at  me,  and  on  seeing  me  almost  fall  headlong,  doubt 
less  gave  himself  credit  for  another  Yankee  sent  to  "the  happy 
hunting  grounds."  It  is  quite  likely  that  owing  to  the  existence  of 
that  old  dead  root,  and  my  lucky  stumble  thereon,  I  am  now  here 
telling  the  story  of  this  skirmish.  By  this  time  it  was  sunset,  and 
darkness  was  approaching,  but  we  went  on.  The  Confederate 
skirmishers  retired,  but  we  soon  developed  their  main  line  on  some 


236  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

high  ground  near  the  edge  of  the  woods, — and  then  we  had  to  stop. 
We  lay  down,  loaded  and  fired  in  that  position,  and  nearly  all  of 
the  enemy's  balls  passed  over  our  heads.  Presently  it  grew  quite 
dark,  and  all  we  had  to  aim  at  was  the  long  horizontal  sheet  of 
red  flame  that  streamed  from  the  muskets  of  the  Confederates.  In 
the  mean  time  the  artillery  of  both  parties  was  still  engaged  in 
their  duel,  and  their  balls  and  shells  went  screaming  over  our 
heads.  Occasionally  a  Confederate  shell  would  explode  right  over 
us,  and  looked  interesting,  but  did  no  harm.  While  all  this  firing 
was  at  its  liveliest,  I  heard  close  by  the  heavy  "thud"  that  a  bullet 
makes  in  striking  a  human  body,  followed  immediately  by  a  sharp 
cry  of  "Oh !"  which  meant  that  someone  had  been  hit.  It  proved 
to  be  Lieutenant  Elijah  Corrington,  of  Co.  F.  He  was  struck  by 
the  ball  in  the  region  of  the  heart,  and  expired  almost  instantly. 
He  was  a  good  man,  and  a  brave  soldier,  and  his  death  was  sincere 
ly  mourned. 

The  aifair  was  terminated  by  the  174th  Ohio  on  our  left  get 
ting  around  on  the  enemy's  right  flank,  where  it  poured  in  a  de 
structive  volley,  and  the  Confederates  retired.  We  followed  a 
short  distance,  but  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  more  of  the 
enemy,  so  we  finally  retired  also.  We  recrossed  the  creek,  built 
some  big  fires  out  of  dry  chestnut  rails,  which  we  left  burning,  in 
order,  I  suppose,  to  make  our  foes  believe  we  were  still  there,  and 
then  marched  to  Murfreesboro,  where  we  arrived  about  midnight. 

On  the  two  following  days,  December  5  and  6,  the  Confed 
erates  showed  themselves  to  the  west  of  us,  and  demonstrated  most 
ostentatiously  against  Murfreesboro.  From  where  we  stood  on 
the  ramparts  of  Fortress  Rosecrans  wre  could  plainly  see  their  col 
umns  in  motion,  with  flags  flying,  circling  around  us  as  if  looking 
for  a  good  opening.  They  were  beyond  the  range  of  musketry, 
but  our  bag  guns  in  the  fortress  opened  on  them  and  gave  them 
a  most  noisy  cannonading,  but  what  the  effect  was  I  don't  know,— 
probably  not  much.  In  the  battles  of  the  Civil  War  artillery  play 
ing  on  infantry  at  short  range  with  grape  and  canister  did  fright 
ful  execution,  of  which  I  saw  plenty  of  evidence  at  Shiloh ;  but  at  a 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  237 

distance,  and  firing  with  solid  shot  or  shell,  it  simply  made  a  big 
noise,  and  if  it  killed  anybody,  it  was  more  an  accident  than  other 
wise. 

Beginning  about  December  5th,  and  continuing  for  several 
days  thereafter,  we  turned  out  at  four  o'clock  every  morning, 
fully  armed,  and  manned  the  trenches  in  the  rear  of  the  breast 
works,  and  remained  there  till  after  sunrise.  It  was  a  cold,  chilly 
business,  standing  two  or  three  hours  in  those  damp  trenches,  with 
an  empty  stomach,  waiting  for  an  apprehended  attack,  which, 
however,  was  never  made.  For  my  part,  I  felt  like  I  did  when  be 
hind  our  big  works  in  the  rear  of  Vicksburg,  and  sincerely  hoped 
that  the  other  fellows  would  make  an  attempt  to  storm  our  de 
fenses,  and  I  think  the  other  boys  felt  the  same  way.  We  would 
have  shot  them  down  just  like  pigeons,  and  the  artillery  in  the 
corner  bastions,  charged  with  grape  and  canister,  would  have 
played  its  part  too.  But  the  Confederates  had  no  intention  of 
making  any  attempt  of  this  nature.  The  Official  Records  of  the 
Rebellion  hereinbefore  mentioned  contain  the  correspondence  be- 
between  Hood  and  Forrest  concerning  this  movement  on  Murfrees- 
boro,  and  which  clearly  discloses  their  schemes.  The  plan  was 
simply  to  "scare"  Rousseau  out  of  Murfreesboro,  and  cause  him  to 
retreat  in  a  northerly  direction  towards  the  town  of  Lebanon,  and 
then,  having  gotten  him  out  of  his  hole,  to  surround  him  in  the 
open  with  their  large  force  of  cavalry,  well  supported  by  infantry, 
and  capture  all  his  command.  But  Rosseau  didn't  "scare"  worth 
a  cent,  as  will  appear  later. 


238  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  WILKINSON'S  PIKE.— DECEMBER  7,  1864. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  December  7th,  General  Rousseau 
started  out  General  Milroy  with  seven,  regiments  of  infantry, 
(which  included  our  regiment,)  a  battery  of  artillery,  and  a  small 
detachment  of  cavalry,  to  find  out  what  Gen.  Forrest  wanted. 
Our  entire  force  consisted  of  a  trifle  over  thirty-three  hundred 
men.  We  first  marched  south  from  Murfreesboro,  on  the  Salem 
pike,  but  gradually  executed  a  right  wheel,  crossed  Stone  river, 
and  worked  to  the  northwest.  We  soon  jumped  up  the  Confed 
erate  cavalry  vedettes,  and  a  portion  of  the  61st  was  thrown  out 
as  skirmishers,  and  acted  with  our  cavalry  in  driving  back  these 
scattered  outposts  of  the  enemy.  Finally,  about  noon,  we  ran  up 
against  the  main  line  of  the  Confederates,  on  the  Wilkinson  pike, 
protected  by  slight  and  hastily  constructed  breastworks,  made  of 
dirt,  rails,  and  logs.  Their  artillery  opened  on  us  before  we 
came  in  musket  range,  and  we  halted  and  formed  in  line  of  battle 
in  some  tall  woods,  with  an  open  field  in  front.  We  were  stand 
ing  here  in  line  when  Gen.  Milroy  with  some  of  his  staff  rode  up 
rigiht  in  front  of  our  regiment,  and  stopped  on  a  little  elevated 
piece  of  ground.  Then  the  old  man  took  out  his  field-glass,  and 
proceeded  carefully  and  deliberately  to  scrutinize  the  country  be 
fore  him.  My  place  in  the  line  was  only  two  or  three  rods  from 
him,  and  I  watched  his  proceedings  with  the  deepest  interest. 
He  would  look  a  while  at  the  front,  then  sweep  his  glass  to  the 
right  and  scan  that  locality,  then  to  the  left  and  examine  that 
region.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  we  all  remained  profoundly  si 
lent,  his  staff  sat  near  him  on  their  horses,  also  saying  nothing.  His 
survey  of  the  country  before  him  could  not  have  lasted  more  than 
five  minutes,  but  to  me  it  seemed  terribly  long.  At  last  he  shut 
up  his  glass,  returned  it  to  its  case,  gave  his  horse  a  sort  of  a 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  239 

"haw"  pull,  and  said  something  in  a  low  tone  to  the  different 
members  of  his  staff,  who  forthwith  dispersed  in  a  gallop  up  and 
down  our  line.  "Now,"  thought  I,  "something  is  going  to  hap 
pen."  One  of  the  staff  stopped  and  said  something  to  Col.  Grass, 
and  then  came  the  command:  "Attention,  battalion!  Shoulder 
arms!  Face  to  the  rear!  Battalion,  about  face!  Right  shoulder 
shift  arms !  Forward,  guide  center,  march !"  And  that,  I  thought, 
told  the  story.  The  other  fellows  were  too  many  for  us,  and  we 
were  going  to  back  out.  They  probably  had  someone  up  a  tree, 
watching  us,  for  we  had  hardly  begun  our  rearward  movement 
before  their  artillery  opened  on  us  furiously,  and  the  cannon  balls 
went  crashing  through  the  tree  tops,  and  bringing  down  the  limbs 
in  profusion.  But,  as  usual,  the  artillery  hurt  nobody,  and  we 
went  on,  quietly  and  in  perfect  order.  After  retiring  through 
the  woods  for  some  distance,  we  gradually  changed  the  direction 
of  our  march  to  the  left,  the  result  being  that  we  executed  an 
extensive  left  wheel,  and  pivoted  towards  the  left  flank  of  the 
enemy.  Here  our  entire  regiment  was  deployed  as  skirmishers, 
and  we  again  advanced.  We  later  learned  that  the  enemy  had 
made  all  their  preparations  to  meet  us  at  the  point  where  we 
first  encountered  their  line,  so  they  were  not  fully  prepared  for 
this  new  movement. 

Gen.  Milroy,  in  his  official  report  of  the  battle,  in  describing 
this  advance,  says: 

"The  Sixty-first  Illinois  was  deployed  as  skirmishers  in 
front  of  the  first  line,  [and  the]  line  advanced  upon  the  enemy 
through  the  brush,  cedars,  rocks,  and  logs,  under  a  heavy  fire  of 
artillery.  *  *  *  *  Skirmishing  with  small  arms  began  soon 
after  commenqing  my  advance,  but  my  skirmish  line  advanced, 
rapidly,  bravely,  and  in  splendid  order,  considering  the  nature 
of  the  ground,  driving  the  rebels  before  them  for  about  a  mile," 
[when  their  main  line  was  struck].  See  Serial  number  93,  Of 
ficial  Records  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  p.  618. 

As  we  were  advancing  in  this  skirmish  line  across  an  old 
cotton  field,  the  Confederates  ran  forward  a  section  of  artillery, 
placed  it  on  some  rising  ground  and  opened  on  us  a  rapid  fire. 


240  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

The  shot  and  shell  fell  all  around  us,  throwing  up  showers  of  red 
dirt,  but  doing  no  harm.  While  these  guns  were  thus  engaged,  I 
noticed  a  large,  fine-looking  man,  mounted  on  an  iron  gray  horse, 
near  one  of  the  pieces,  and  who  was  intently  watching  our  ad 
vance  across  the  field.  He  evidently  was  a  Confederate  officer, 
and  I  thought  possibly  of  high  rank;  so,  taking  careful  aim  each 
time,  I  gave  him  two  shots  from  "Trimthicket,"  (the  pet  name 
of  my  old  musket,)  but  without  effect,  so  far  as  was  perceivable. 
After  each  shot  he  remained  impassive  in  his  saddle,  and  soon 
after  galloped  away.  After  the  battle  I  talked  about  the  incident 
with  some  of  the  Confederates  we  captured,  and  they  told  me 
that  this  officer  was  Gen.  Forrest  himself.  He  was  probably  too 
far  away  when  I  fired  at  him  for  effective  work,  but  he  doubtless 
heard  the  bullets  and  perhaps  concluded  that  he  had  better  not 
expose  himself  unnecessarily. 

Our  skirmish  line  continued  to  advance  across  the  cotton 
field  before  mentioned.  In  our  front  was  a  dense  thicket  of 
small  cedars  occupied  by  the  Confederate  skirmishers,  and  as  we 
approached  these  woods  our  progress  was  somewhat  slow.  I 
happened  to  notice  in  the  edge  of  the  thicket,  and  only  a  few  rods 
in  my  front,  a  big,  heavy  log,  which  was  lying  parallel  to  our 
line,  and  would  afford  splendid  protection.  Thereupon  I  made  a 
rush,  and  dropped  behind  this  log.  It  was  apparently  a  rail-cut, 
and  had  been  left  lying  on  the  ground.  A  little  fellow  of  Co.  H, 
named  John  Fox,  a  year  or  two  my  junior,  saw  me  rush  for  this 
log,  he  followed  me,  and  dropped  down  behind  it  also.  He  had 
hardly  done  this  when  he  quickly  called  to  me — "Look  out,  Still- 
well!  You'll  get  shot!"  I  hardly  understood  just  what  caused 
his  remark,  but  instinctively  ducked  behind  the  log,  and  at  that 
instant  "whis-sh"  went  a  bullet  from  the  front  through  the  upper 
bark  of  the  log,  right  opposite  where  my  breast  was  a  second  or 
two  before,  scattering  worm-dust  and  fragments  of  bark  over  my 
neck  and  shoulders.  "I  seed  him  a-takin'  aim,"  dryly  remarked 
little  Fox.  "Where  is  he?"  I  quickly  inquired.  "Right  yander," 
answered  Fox,  indicating  the  place  by  pointing.  I  looked  and  saw 
the  fellow — he  was  a  grown  man,  in  a  faded  gray  uniform,  but 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  241 

before  I  could  complete  my  hasty  preparations  to  return  his  com 
pliment  he  disappeared  in  the  jungle  of  cedar. 

An  incident  will  now  be  described,  the  result  of  which  was 
very  mortifying  to  me  at  the  time,  and  which,  to  this  day,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand,  or  account  for.  We  had  passed 
through  the  cedar  woods  before  mentioned,  and  entered  another 
old  cotton  field.  And  right  in  the  hither  edge  of  that  field  we 
came  plump  on  a  Confederate  cavalry  vedette,  seated  on  his  horse. 
The  man  had  possibly  been  on  duty  all  the  previous  night,  and  per 
haps  was  now  dozing  in  his  saddle,  or  he  never  would  have  stayed 
for  us  to  slip  up  on  him  as  we  did.  But  if  asleep,  he  waked  up 
promptly  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings.  All  along  our  line  the 
boys  began  firing  at  him,  yelling  as  they  did  so.  The  moment  I 
saw  him,  I  said  to  myself,  with  an  exultant  thrill,  "You're  my 
game."  He  was  a  big  fellow,  broad  across  the  back,  wearing  a 
wool  hat,  a  gray  jacket,  and  butternut  trousers.  My  gun  was 
loaded,  I  was  all  ready,  and  what  followed  didn't  consume  much 
more  than  two  seconds  of  time.  I  threw  my  gun  to  my  shoulder, 
let  the  muzzle  sink  until  I  saw  through  the  front  and  rear  sights 
the  center  of  that  broad  back — and  then  pulled  the  trigger. 
Porting  my  musket,  I  looked  eagerly  to  the  front,  absolutely  con 
fident  that  my  vision  would  rest  on  the  horse  flying  riderless 
across  the  field,  and  the  soldier  lying  dead  upon  the  ground.  But 
to  my  utter  amazement,  there  was  the  fellow  yet  on  his  horse,  and, 
like  John  Gilpin  of  old,  going, 

"Like  an  arrow  swift 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong." 

He  had  a  small  gad,  or  switch,  in  his  right  hand,  with  which  he 
was  belaboring  his  horse  every  jump,  and  the  upshot  of  the  mat 
ter  was,  he  reached  and  disappeared  in  the  woods  beyond,  with 
out  a  scratch,  so  far  as  any  of  us  on  our  side  even  knew.  How 
my  shot  happened  to  miss  that  man  is  just  one  of  the  most 
unaccountable  things  that  ever  happened  to  me  in  my  life.  I  was 
perfectly  cool  and  collected  at  the  time,  and  my  nerves  were  steady 
as  iron;  he  was  a  splendid  mark,  at  close  range,  and  I  took  a 
deadly  aim.  And  then  to  think  that  all  our  other  fellows  missed 


242  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER 

him  too!  It  was  certainly  a  thing  that  surpasses  all  compre 
hension. 

At  the  time  I  am  now  writing  these  lines,  a  little  ovyr  'iatf 
a  century  has  passed  away  since  this  incident  occurred,  and  ;t 
will  here  be  recorded  that  now  I  am  sincerely  thankful  that  I 
failed  to  kill  that  man.  Considering  his  marvelous  escape  on 
this  occasion,  the  presumption  is  strong  that  he  lived  through  the 
war,  married  some  good  woman,  and  became  the  father  of  a  fam 
ily  of  interesting  children,  and  likely  some  one  of  his  boys  fought 
under  the  old  flag  in  the  Spanish-American  War, — so  it  is  prob 
ably  all  for  the  best. 

But, — how  in  the  world  did  I  happen  to  miss  him? 

Only  a  few  minutes  after  this  incident  I  experienced  the 
closest  call  (so  far  as  can  be  stated  with  certainty)  that  befell 
me  during  my  service.  On  this  day  it  so  happened  that  Co.  D 
was  assigned  a  position  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  skirmish  line. 
This  was  not  the  regulation  place  for  the  company  in  the  regi 
mental  line,  and  just  how  this  came  about  I  don't  know,  J?ut  so 
it  was.  As  the  first  sergeant  of  D,  my  position  was  on  the  ex 
treme  right  of  the  company,  consequently  I  was  the  right  hand 
man  of  the  whole  skirmish  line.  We  were  continuing  our  ad 
vance  across  the  field  where  we  came  on  the  vedette  just  men 
tioned,  and  all  in  high  spirits.  I  had  on  a  broad-brimmed  felt 
hat,  my  overcoat,  and  beneath  that  what  we  called  a  "dress-coat," 
with  the  ends  of  my  trouser  legs  tucked  in  my  socks ;  was  carrying 
my  gun  at  a  ready,  and  eagerly  looking  for  something  to  shoot 
at.  There  was  a  little  bunch  of  Confederates  in  the  woods  on  our 
right  that  were  sort  of  "pot-shooting"  at  us  as  we  were  moving 
across  the  field,  but  we  paid  no  attention  to  them,  as  the  main 
force  of  the  enemy  was  in  our  front.  Suddenly  I  was  whirled 
around  on  my  feet  like  a  top,  and  a  sensation  went  through  me 
similar,  I  suppose,  to  that  which  one  feels  when  he  receives  an 
electric  shock.  I  noticed  that  the  breast  of  my  overcoat  was 
torn,  but  saw  no  blood  nor  felt  any  pain,  so  it  was  manifest  that 
I  wasn't  hurt.  It  was  clear  that  the  ball  which  struck  me  had 
come  from  the  right,  so  some  of  us  paid  attention  to  those  fel- 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  243 

lows  at  once,  and  they  soon  disappeared.  At  the  first  oppor 
tunity  after  the  battle  was  over  I  examined  my  clothes  to  find 
out  what  this  bullet  had  done.  As  stated,  it  came  from  the  right, 
and  first  went  through  the  cape  of  my  overcoat,  then  through 
the  right-arm  sleeves  of  my  overcoat  and  dress  coat,  thence 
through  the  right  breast  of  both  those  coats,  and  then  through 
the  left  breast  thereof,  and  from  thence  went  on  its  way.  All 
told,  it  made  nine  holes  in  my  clothes,  but  never  touched  my  flesh. 
But  it  was  a  fine  line-shot  and  had  it  been  two  inches  further  back 
all  would  have  been  over  with  me. 

Just  after  this  episode,  as  we  approached  a  rise  in  the  field 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  main  line  of  the  enemy,  in  the  edge  of  the 
woods  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  field.  The  right  wing  of  our 
skirmish  line  then  took  ground  to  the  right  and  the  other  wing  to 
the  left  in  order  to  uncover  our  main  line.  It  then  marched  up, 
and  the  action  became  general.  The  musketry  firing  on  both 
sides  was  heavy  and  incessant,  and,  in  addition,  the  enemy  had  a 
battery  of  artillery,  which  kept  roaring  most  furiously.  We 
also  had  a  battery,  but  it  was  not  now  in  evidence,  the  reason  be 
ing,  as  we  afterwards  learned,  that  it  had  exhausted  its  ammu 
nition  during  the  previous  course  of  the  day,  and  had  returned  to 
Fortress  Rosecrans  for  a  further  supply,  but  before  it  got  back 
the  fight  was  over.  The  engagement  had  lasted  only  a  short 
time,  when  the.  command  was  given  to  charge,  and  our  whole  line 
went  forward.  And  thereupon  I  witnessed  the  bravest  act  that 
I  ever  saw  performed  by  an  officer  of  the  rank  of  general.  The 
regiment  immediately  on  the  left  of  the  right  wing  of  our  regi 
ment  was  the  174th  Ohio.  It  was  a  new  regiment,  and  had  never 
been  under  fire  but  once  before,  that  occasion  being  the  affair  at 
Overall's  creek  three  days  previous.  So,  when  we  started  on  this 
charge,  I  anxiously  watched  this  big,  new  Ohio  regiment,  for  it 
was  perfectly  plain  that  if  it  faltered  and  went  back,  our  little 
right  wing  of  the'  61st  Illinois  would  have  to  do  likewise.  And 
presently  that  Ohio  regiment  stopped! — and  then  we  stopped  too. 
I  looked  at  those  Ohio  fellows ;  there  was  that  peculiar  trembling, 
wavy  motion  along  their  line  which  precedes  a  general  going  to 


244  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

pieces,  and  it  seemed  like  the  game  was  up.  But  just  at  that  su 
preme  moment,  old  Gen.  Milroy  appeared,  on  his  horse,  right  in 
front  of  that  Ohio  regiment,  at  a  point1  opposite  the  colors.  He 
was  bareheaded,  holding  his  hat  in  his  right  hand,  his  long,  heavy, 
iron-gray  hair  was  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  he  was  a  most 
conspicuous  mark.  The  Confederates  were  blazing  away  along 
their  whole  line,  yelling  like  devils,  and  I  fairly  held  my  breath, 
expecting  to  see  the  old  General  forthwith  pitch  headlong  i'rom 
his  horse,  riddled  with  bullets.  But  he  gave  the  enemy  very  lit 
tle  time  to  practice  on  him.  I  was  not  close  enough  to  hear  what 
he  said,  but  he  called  to  those  Ohio  men  in  a  ringing  tone,  and 
waved  his  hat  towards  the  enemy.  The  effect  was  instantane 
ous  and  sublime.  The  whole  line  went  forward  with  a  furious 
yell,  and  surged  over  the  Confederate  works  like  a  big  blue  wave, 
— and  the  day  was  ours! 

The  Confederates  retreated  on  a  double  quick,  but  in  good 
order.  We  captured  two  pieces  of  their  artillery,  a  stand''  of 
colors,  and  about  two  hundred  prisoners.  We  followed  them  a 
short  distance,  but  saw  them  no  more,  and  about  sundown  we 
marched  back  to  Fortress  Rosecrans.  But  before  finally  passing 
from  this  affair,  a  few  other  things  connected  therewith  will  oe 
mentioned. 

As  we  went  over  the  Confederate  works  on  our  charge,  I 
saw  lying  on  the  ground,  inside,  a  dead  Confederate  lieutenant- 
colonel.  He  was  on  his  back,  his  broad-brimmed  hat  pulled  over 
his  face,  and  a  pair  of  large  gauntlet  gloves  tucked  in  his  belt. 
His  sword  was  detached  from  the  belt,  in  the  scabbard,  and  was 
lying  transversely  across  his  body.  As  I  rah  by  him  I  stooped 
down,  and  with  my  left  hand  picked  up  the  sword,  and  carried  it 
along.  I  brought  it  to  camp  with  me,  kept  it  until  we  were  mus 
tered  out,  and  then  brought  it  home.  Later  a  Masonic  lodge  was 
organized  in  Otterville,  and  some  of  the  officers  thereof  borrow 
ed  from  me  this  sword  for  the  use  of  the  tyler  of  the  lodge,  in  his 
official  duties.  In  1868  I  came  to  Kansas,  leaving  the  sword  with 
the  lodge.  After  the  lapse  of  some  years  there  came  a  time  when 
I  desired  to  resume  possession  of  this  relic  of  the  war,  but  on 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  245 

taking  action  to  obtain  it,  it  was  ascertained  that  in  the  mean 
time  the  lodge  building,  with  all  its  furniture  and  paraphernalia, 
including  the  sword  in  question,  had  been  accidentally  destroyed 
by  fire.  And  thus  passed  away  the  only  trophy  that  I  ever  car 
ried  off  a  battlefield.  Many  years  later  I  met  here  in  Kansas  the 
late  Confederate  Gen.  John  B.  Gordon,  of  Georgia,  and  had  a 
long  and  interesting  conversation  with  him.  I  told  him  the  facts 
connected  with  my  obtaining  this  sword,  and  of  its  subsequent 
loss,  as  above  stated.  He  listened  to  me  with  deep  attention,  and 
at  the  close  of  my  story,  said  he  was  satisfied  from  my  general 
description  of  the  dead  Confederate  officer  that  the  body  on 
which  I  found  the  sword  was  that  of  W.  W.  Billopp,  lieutenant- 
colonel  of  the  29th  Georgia,  who  was  killed  in  this  action.  Gen. 
Gordon  also  said  that  he  was  well  acquainted  with  Col.  Billopp  in 
his  life  time,  and  that  he  was  a  splendid  gentleman  and  a  brave 
soldier.  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  regret  with  me  that  the 
sword  was  destroyed,  for  I  intended,  at  the  time  I  sought  to  re 
claim  it  from  the  Masonic  lodge,  to  take  steps  to  restore  it  to  the 
family  of  the  deceased  officer,  in  the  event  that  it  could  be  done. 

When  the  Confederates  retired  from  this  battlefield  of  De 
cember  7th,  they  left  their  dead  and  severely  wounded  on  the 
field,  as  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  do  otherwise.  I  walked 
around  among  these  unfortunates,  and  looked  at  them,  and  saw 
some  things  that  made  me  feel  sorrowful  indeed.  I  looked  in 
the  haversacks  of  some  of  the  dead  to  see  what  they  had  to  eat, — 
and  what  do  you  suppose  was  found?  Nothing  but  raw,  shelled 
corn!  And  many  of  them  were  barefooted,  and  judging  from  ap 
pearances,  had  been  so  indefinitely.  Their  feet  were  almost  as 
black  as  those  of  a  negro,  with  the  skin  wrinkled  and  corrugated 
to  that  extent  that  it  looked  like  the  hide  of  an  alligator.  These 
things  inspired  in  me  a  respect  for  the  Confederate  soldiers  that 
I  never  had  felt  before.  The  political  leaders  of  the  Davis  and 
Toombs  type  who  unnecessarily  brought  about  the  war  are,  in  my 
opinion,  deserving  of  the  severest  condemnation.  But  there  can  be 
no  question  that  the  common  soldiers  of  the  Confederate  army 
acted  from  the  most  deep-seated  convictions  of  the  justice  and  the 


246  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

righteousness  of  their  cause,  and  the  fortitude  and  bravery  they 
displayed  in  support  of  it  are  worthy  of  the  highest  admiration. 

After  the  engagement  of  December  7th,  the  Confederates  still 
remained  in  our  vicinity,  and  showed  themselves  at  intervals, 
but  made  no  aggressive  movement.  Cold  weather  set  in  about 
this  time,  the  ground  was  covered  with  sleet,  and  our  situation, 
cooped  up  in  Fortress  Rosecrans,  was  unpleasant  and  disagree 
able.  We  had  long  ago  turned  in  our  big  Sibley  tents,  and  drawn 
in  place  of  them  what  we  called  "pup-tents."  They  were  little, 
squatty  things,  composed  of  different  sections  of  canvas  that 
could  be  unbuttoned  and  taken  apart,  and  carried  by  the  men 
when  on  a  march.  They  were  large  enough  for  only  two  occu 
pants,  and  there  were  no  facilities  for  building  fires  in  them,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  Sibleys.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  Confed 
erates  were  all  around  us,  we  were  short  of  fire-wood  too.  Stone 
river  ran  through  the  fortress,  and  there  were  some  big  logs  in 
the  river,  which  I  suppose  had  been  there  ever  since  the  work  was 
constructed,  and  we  dragged  them  out  and  used  them  to  eke  out 
our  fires.  They  were  all  water-soaked,  and  hardly  did  more  than 
smoulder,  but  they  helped  some.  At  night  we  would  crowd  into 
those  little  pup-tents,  lie  down  with  all  our  clothes  on,  wrap  up  in 
our  blankets  and  try  to  sleep,  but  with  poor  success.  I  remember 
that  usually  about  midnight  I  would  "freeze  out,"  and  get  up  and 
stand  around  those  sobbing,  smouldering  logs, — and  shiver.  To 
make  matters  worse,  we  were  put  on  half  rations  soon  after  we 
came  to  Murfreesboro,  and  full  rations  were  not  issued  again  until 
the  Confederates  retreated  from  Nashville  after  the  battle  of  De 
cember  15-16. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  247 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE  FIGHT  ON  THE  RAILROAD  NEAR  MURFREESBORO, 
DECEMBER  15,  1864. 

On  the  afternoon  of  December  12th  the  regiment  fell  in  and 
we  marched  to  the  railroad  depot  at  Murfreesboro,  climbed  on  a 
train  of  box  cars,  and  started  for  Stevenson,  Alabama,  about  80 
miles  southeast  of  Murfreesboro.  The  number  of  the  regiment 
who  participated  in  this  movement,  according  to  the  official  re 
port  of  Maj.  Nulton,  was  150  men,  and  we  were  accompanied  by 
a  detachment  of  about  forty  of  the  1st  Michigan  Engineers. 
(See  Serial  No.  93,  Official  Records  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion, 
p.  620.)  We  soon  learned  that  the  train  was  going  to  Stevenson 
to  obtain  rations  for  the  troops  at  Murfreesboro,  and  that  our 
province  was  to  serve  as  guards  for  the  train,  to  Stevenson  and  on 
its  return.  We  had  not  gone  more  than  eight  or  ten  miles 
from  Murfreesboro  before  we  ran  into  the  Confederate 
cavalry  vedettes  who  were  scattered  along  at  numerous 
points  of  observation  near  the  railroad.  However,  on  our 
approach  they  scurried  away  like  quails.  But  in  many 
places  the  track  had  been  torn  up,  and  culverts  destroyed,  and 
when  we  came  to  one  of  these  breaks,  the  train  had  to  stop  un 
til  our  engineers  could  repair  it,  and  then  we  went  on.  Right 
here  I  will  say  that  those  Michigan  Engineers  were  splendid  fel 
lows.  There  was  a  flat  car  with  our  train,  and  on  this  car  was 
a  supply  of  extra  rails,  spikes,  and  other  railroad  appliances, 
with  all  the  tools  that  the  engineers  used  in  their  work,  and  it 
was  remarkable  to  see  how  quick  those  men  would  repair  a  break 
in  the  road.  They  also  were  provided  with  muskets  and  ac- 
couterments  the  same  as  ordinary  soldiers,  and  when  the  necessity 
arose,  (as  it  did  before  we  got  back  to  Murfreesboro,)  they  would 
drop  their  sledges  and  crowbars,  buckle  on  their  cartridge  boxes 


248  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

and  grab  their  muskets,  and  fight  like  tigers.  It  was  "all  the  same 
to  Joe"  with  them.  After  getting  about  thirty-five  miles  from 
Murfreesboro  we  saw  no  more  of  the  enemy,  the  railroad  from 
thereon  was  intact,  and  we  arrived  at  Stevenson  about  10  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  the  13th.  The  train  was  loaded  with  rations 
and  early  on  the  morning  of  the  14th  we  started  back  to  Mur 
freesboro,  having  in  addition  to  the  force  with  which  we  left 
there,  a  squad  of  about  thirty  dismounted  men  of  the  12th  In 
diana  Cavalry,  who  joined  us  at  Stevenson.  The  grade  up  the 
eastern  slope  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains  was  steep,  a  drizzling 
rain  had  fallen  the  night  before,  making  the  rails  wet  and  slip 
pery,  and  the  train  had  much  difficulty  in  ascending  the  grade, 
and  our  progress  was  tedious  and  slow.  This  delay  probably  was 
the  cause  of  our  undoing,  as  will  be  revealed  later.  We  didn't  get 
over  the  mountains  until  some  time  in  the  afternoon,  and  went 
along  slowly,  but  all  right;  and  about  dark  reached  Bell  Buckle, 
32  miles  from  Murfreesboro.  Here  trouble  began  on  a  small 
scale.  A  Confederate  cavalry  vedette  was  on  the  alert,  and  fired 
at  us  the  first  shot  of  the  night.  The  bullet  went  over  us  near 
where  I  was  sitting  on  top  of  a  car,  with  a  sharp  "ping,"  that  told 
it  came  from  a  rifle.  But  we  went  on,  proceeding  slowly  and  cau 
tiously,  for  the  night  was  pitch  dark,  and  we  were  liable  to  find 
the  railroad  track  destroyed  at  almost  any  place.  At  2  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  just  after  leaving  Christiana,  about  15  miles  from 
Murfreesboro,  our  troubles  broke  loose  in  good  earnest.  We  en 
countered  the  Confederate  cavalry  in  force,  and  also  found  the 
track  in  front  badly  torn  up.  We  got  off  the  cars,  formed  in  line 
on  both  sides  of  the  road  and  slowly  advanced,  halting  whenever 
we  came  to  a  break  in  the  road,  until  our  Michigan  Engineers 
could  repair  it.  As  above  stated,  they  were  bully  boys,  and  under 
stood  their  business  thoroughly,  and  very  soon  would  patch  up 
the  breaks  so  that  the  train  could  proceed.  But  it  went  only  about 
as  fast  as  a  man  could  walk,  and  during  the  balance  of  that  cold, 
dark  night,  we  marched  along  by  the  side  of  the  track,  skirmish 
ing  with  the  enemy.  On  one  occasion  we  ran  right  up  against 


Major,  61st  Illinois  Infantry  (later  Colonel). 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  249 

their  lirte,  'they  being  'on  their  horses,  and  evidently  awaiting  our 
approach.  Luckily  for  us,  their  guns  must  have  been  wet;  they 
nearly  all  missed  fire,  with  no  result  save  a  lively  snapping  of 
caps  along  substantially  their  entire  line.  But  our  guns  went  off, 
and  we  gave  the  fellows  a  volley  that,  at  least,  waked  up  all  the 
owls  in  the  neighborhood.  It  was  so  intensely  dark  that  accurate 
shooting  was  out  of  the  question,  and  whether  we  hurt  anybody 
or  not  I  don't  know,  but  our  foes  galloped  off  in  great  haste,  and 
disappeared  for  a  while.  Shortly  before  daylight,  when  we  were 
within  about  six  miles  of  Murfreesboro,  we  came  to  the  worst 
break  in  the  track  we  had  yet  encountered.  It  was  at  the  end  of 
a  short  cut  in  the  road  that  was  perhaps  four  or  five  feet  deep. 
In  front  of  this  cut  the  track  was  demolished  for  several  rods,  and 
a  deep  little  culvert  was  also  destroyed.  We  sat  down  on  the 
ground  near  the  track,  and  our  engineers  went  to  work.  The  sit 
uation  was  like  this:  In  our  front,  towards  Murfreesboro,  and 
on  our  right  and  left  rear  were  corn  fields,  with  the  stalks  yet 
standing,  and  on  our  left  front  was  a  high  rocky  ridge,  heavily 
timbered  with  a  dense  growth  of  small  cedars,  and  which  ridge 
sloped  abruptly  down  to  the  railroad  track.  A  small  affluent  of 
Stone  river,  with  a  belt  of  willow  along  its  banks,  flowed  in  a 
winding  course  along  our  right,  in  the  general  direction  of  Mur 
freesboro.  While  we  were  sitting  here  on  the  ground,  half  asleep, 
waiting  for  the  engineers  to  call  out  "All  right!" — there  came  a 
volley  of  musketry  from  the  woods  of  the  rocky  ridge  I  have  men 
tioned.  We  sprang  to  our  feet,  formed  in  the  cut  facing  the  ridge, 
and  began  returning  the  fire.  After  this  had  continued  for  some 
time,  a  party  of  the  enemy  moved  to  our  rear,  beyond  gunshot, 
and  began  tearing  up  the  track  there,  while  another  party  took  up 
a  position  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  stream  on  our  right, 
and  opened  fire  on  us  from  that  direction.  A  portion  of  our  force 
was  shifted  to  the  right  of  the  train  to  meet  the  attack  from  this 
quarter,  and  the  firing  waxed  hot  and  lively.  Our  engineers  had 
seized  their  guns,  and  were  blazing  away  with  the  rest  of  us,  and 
our  bunch  of  dismounted  cavalry  men  were  also  busy  with  their 


250  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

carbines.  This  state  of  things  continued  for  fully  an  hour,  and  I 
think  some  longer,  when  suddenly,  coming  from  our  left  rear,  a 
cannon  ball  screamed  over  our  heads,  followed  by  the  roar  of  the 
gun.  The  commanding  officer  of  Co.  D  in  this  affair  (and  the 
only  officer  of  our  company  present  )  was  Lieut.  Wallace,  and  he 
was  standing  near  me  when  the  cannon  ball  went  over  us. 
"What's  that?"  he  exclaimed.  "It  means  they  have  opened  on  us 
with  artillery,"  I  answered.  "Well,"  he  responded,  "let  'em  bang 
away  with  their  pop-guns!"  and  I  think  we  all  felt  equally  indif 
ferent.  We  had  become  familiar  with  artillery  and  knew  that  at 
long  range  it  was  not  very  dangerous.  But  the  enemy's  cannon 
kept  pounding  away,  and  pretty  soon  a  shot  struck  somewhere  on 
the  engine  with  a  resounding  crash.  About  this  time  Col.  Grass 
gave  the  order  to  retreat.  There  was  only  one  way  of  escape  open, 
and  that  was  down  the  track  towards  Murfreesboro.  We  hastily 
formed  in  two  ranks,  and  started  down  the  right  side  of  the  track 
in  a  double  quick.  As  we  passed  out  of  the  cut  a  body  of  dis 
mounted  cavalry  came  out  of  the  woods  on  the  ridge  to  our  left 
and  gave  us  a  volley  of  musketry.  But,  being  on  higher  ground 
than  we  were,  they  overshot  us  badly,  and  did  but  little  harm. 
We  answered  their  fire,  and  their  line  halted.  The  command 
quickly  went  along  our  column  to  load  and  fire  as  we  went,  and 
"keep  firing!"  and  we  did  so.  We  kept  up  a  rattling,  scattering 
fire  on  those  fellows  on  our  left  which  had  the  effect  of  standing 
them  off,  at  any  rate,  and  in  the  meantime  we  all  did  some  of  the 
fastest  running  down  along  the  side  of  the  railroad  track  that  I 
have  ever  seen.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  am  satisfied  that  I  never 
before  surpassed  it,  and  have  never  since  equaled  it.  But  we  had 
all  heard  of  Andersonville,  and  wanted  no  Confederate  prison  in 
ours.  To  add  to  our  troubles,  an  irregular  line  of  Confederate 
cavalry  charged  >on  us  through  the  corn  field  in  our  rear,  firing 
and  yelling  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  "Halt!  Halt!  you  G —  d — 
Yankee  sons  of  — • — !"  —their  remarks  closing  with  an  epithet 
concerning  our  maternal  ancestors  which,  in  the  words  of  Colonel 
Carter  of  Cartersville,  was  "vehy  gallin',  suh."  But,  as  said  by 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  251 

the  French  soldier,  old  Peter,  in       "The  Chronicles  of  the  Drum," 
"Cheer  up!  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys, — 

'Tis  written,  since  fighting  begun, 
That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer 
And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run." 

Occasionally  we  would  send  a  bullet  back  at  these  discourteous 
pursuers,  and  possibly  on  account  of  that,  or  maybe  some  other 
reason,  they  refrained  from  closing  in  on  us. 

About  half  a  mile  from  where  we  left  the  train  the  railroad 
crossed  on  a  high  trestle  the  little  stream  I  have  mentioned,  which 
here  turned  to  the  left,  and  we  had  to  ford  it.  It  was  only  about 
knee-deep,  but  awful  cold.  The  Confederates  did  not  attempt  to 
pursue  us  further  after  we  crossed  the  creek,  and  from  there  we 
continued  our  retirement  unmolested.  I  fired  one  shot  soon  after  we 
forded  the  stream,  and  I  have  always  claimed,  and.  in  my  opinion, 
rightfully,  that  it  was  the  last  shot  fired  in  action  by  the  regi 
ment  during  the  war.  I  will  briefly  state  the  circumstances  con 
nected  with  the  incident.  In  crossing  the  creek,  in  some  manner 
I  fell  behind,  which  it  may  be  said  was  no  disgrace,  as  the  rear, 
right  then,  was  the  place  of  danger.  But,  to  be  entirely  frank 
about  it,  this  action  was  not  voluntary  on  my  part,  but  because  I 
was  just  about  completely  played  out.  Firing  had  now  ceased, 
and  I  took  my  time,  and  soon  was  the  tail-end  man  of  what 
was  left  of  us.  Presently  the  creek  made  a  bend  to  the  right,  and 
circled  around  a  small  elevated  point  of  land  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  on  this  little  rise  I  saw  a  group  of  Confederate  cavalrymen, 
four  or  five  in  number,  seated  on  their  horses,  and  quietly  looking 
at  us.  They  maybe  thought  there  was  no  more  fight  left  in  us, 
and  that  they  could  gaze  on  our  retreat  with  impunity.  They 
probably  were  officers,  as  they  had  no  muskets  or  carbines,  and 
were  apparently  wearing  better  clothes  than  private  soldiers.  I 
noted  especially  that  they  had  on  black  coats,  of  which  the  tails 
came  down  to  their  saddle-skirts.  They  were  in  easy  shooting 
distance,  and  my  gun  was  loaded.  I  dropped  on  one  knee  behind 
a  sapling,  rested  my  gun  against  the  left  side  of  the  tree,  took  aim 
at  the  center  of  the  bunch,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  "Fiz-z-z — ker- 


252  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

bang!"  roared  old  Trimthicket  with  a  deafening  explosion,  and  a 
kick  that  sent  me  a-sprawling  on  my  back!  There  were  two  loads 
in  my  gun !  My  last  preceding  charge  had  missed  fire,  and  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  and  the  confusion  and  uproar  around 
me,  I  had  failed  to  notice  it,  and  rammed  home  another  load.  But 
I  regained  my  feet  instantly,  and  eagerly  looked  to  see  the  ef 
fect  of  my  shot.  Nobody  was  lying  on  the  ground,  but  that  entire 
party  was  leaving  the  spot,  in  a  gallop,  with  their  heads  bent  for 
ward  and  their  coat  tails  flying  behind  them.  Their  curiosity  was 
evidently  satisfied.  There  is  no  mistake  that  I  sent  two  bullets 
through  the  center  of  that  squad,  but  whether  they  hit  anybody 
or  not  I  don't  know. 

At  a  point  about  a  mile  or  so  from  where  we  left  the  train, 
we  reached  one  of  our  railroad  block  houses,  held  by  a  small  gar 
rison.  Here  we  halted,  and  reformed.  As  I  came  slowly  trudging 
up  to  Co.  D,  Bill  Banfield  was  talking  to  Lieut.  Wallace,  and  said: 
"I  guess  Stillwell's  gone  up.  Haven't  seen  him  since  we  crossed 
that  creek."  I  stepped  forward  and  in  a  brief  remark,  containing 
some  language  not  fitting  for  a  Sunday-school  superintendent,  in 
formed  Bill  that  he  was  laboring  under  a  mistake. 

Soon  after  we  arrived  at  the  blockhouse  a  strong  force  of  our 
troops,  having  marched  out  that  morning  from  Murfreesboro,  also 
appeared  on  the  ground.  Gen.  Rousseau  had  learned  that  we  were 
attacked,  and  had  sent  these  troops  to  our  assistance,  but  they 
were  too  late.  He  had  also  sent  a  detachment  to  this  point  the 
evening  before,  to  meet  us,  but  on  account  of  our  being  delayed, 
as  before  stated,  we  did  not  appear,  so  this  party,  after  waiting 
till  some  time  after  sunset,  marched  back  to  Murfreesboro. 

In  this  affair  we  lost,  in  killed,  wounded,  and  prisoners,  about 
half  the  regiment,  including  Col.  Grass,  who  was  captured.  He 
was  a  heavy-set  man,  somewhat  fleshy,  and  at  this  time  a  little 
over  forty  years  old.  He  became  completely  exhausted  on  our  re 
treat,  (being  on  foot,)  tumbled  over,  and  the  Confederates  got 
him.  Many  years  later,  when  we  were  both  living  in  Kansas,  1 
had  an  interesting  conversation  with  him  about  this  affair.  He 


THE   STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  253 

told  me  that  his  sole  reason  for  ordering  the  retreat  was  that  he 
had  ascertained  shortly  before  the  artillery  opened  on  us,  that  our 
cartridges  were  almost  exhausted.  Then,  when  our  assailants 
brought  their  artillery  into  play,  he  realized,  he  said,  that  the  train 
was  doomed,  that  it  would  soon  be  knocked  to  pieces,  and  also  set  on 
fire  by  the  balls  and  shells  of  the  enemy,  and  that  we  were  power 
less  to  prevent  it.  Under  these  circumstances  he  deemed  it  his 
duty  to  give  up  the  train,  and  save  his  men,  if  possible.  Col.  Grass 
was  a  good  and  brave  man,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  acted  in 
this  matter  according  to  his  sincere  convictions  of  duty. 

The  Confederate  commander  in  this  action  was  Gen.  L.  S. 
Ross  of  Texas,  who,  after  the  war,  served  two  terms  as  governor 
of  that  State.  All  his  men  were  Texans,  (with  the  possible  excep 
tion  of  the  artillery,)  and,  according  to  the  official  reports,  were 
more  than  three  times  our  number.  I  think  it  is  permissible  to 
here  quote  a  small  portion  of  the  official  report  made  by  Gen.  Ross 
of  this  engagement,  as  found  on  page  771,  Serial  No.  93,  Official 
Records  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion.  Speaking  of  our  defense 
of  the  train,  he  says: 

"The  men  guarding  it  fought  desperately  for  over  an  hour, 
having  a  strong  position  in  a  cut  of  the  railroad,  but  were  finally 
routed  by  a  most  gallant  charge  of  the  Sixth  Texas,  supported  by 
the  Third  Texas." 

While  the  tribute  thus  paid  by  Gen.  Ross  to  the  manner  of 
our  defense  is  appreciated,  nevertheless  I  will  say  that  he  is  abso 
lutely  wrong  in  saying  that  we  were  "routed"  by  the  charge  he 
mentions.  We  retreated  simply  and  solely  in  obedience  to  the 
orders  of  Col.  Grass,  our  commander,  and  neither  the  Sixth  Texas 
nor  the  Third  Texas  had  a  thing  to  do  in  bringing  that  about.  I 
don't  deny  that  they  followed  us  pretty  closely  after  we  got 
started. 

Among  our  casualties  in  this  affair  was  Lt.  Lorenzo  J.  Miner, 
of  Co.  B,  (originally  of  Co.  C,)  a  splendid  young  man,  and  a  most 
excellent  officer.  In  addition  to  his  other  efficient  soldierly  qualities 
he  deservedly  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  best  drill-master  in 


254  THE  STORY   OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

the  regiment.  I  happened  to  see  him  on  our  retreat,  shortly  before 
we  arrived  at  the  blockhouse.  He  was  being  helped  off  the  field 
by  Sergt.  Amos  Davis  of  Co.  C  and  another  soldier,  one  on  each  side, 
supporting  him.  They  were  walking  slowly.  Miner's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  ground,  and  he  was  deathly  pale.  I  saw  from  his  man 
ner  that  he  was  badly  hurt,  but  did  not  learn  the  extent  of  it  till 
later.  He  was  shot  somewhere  through  the  body.  The  wound 
proved  mortal  and  he  died  a  few  days  after  the  fight. 

And  so  it  was,  that  after  more  than  three  years  of  brave  and 
faithful  service  he  was  fated  to  lose  his  life  in  the  last  action  the 
regiment  was  in — a  small,  obscure  affair  among  the  rocks  and 
bushes,  and  which,  when  mentioned  in  the  general  histories  at  all, 
is  disposed  of  in  a  paragraph  of  about  four  lines.  But  a  soldier  in 
time  of  war  has  no  control  over  his  fate,  and  no  option  in  the  selec 
tion  of  the  time  when,  nor  the  place  where,  it  may  be  his  lot  to 
"stack  arms"  forever. 

I  will  now  resume  the  account  of  what  occurred  after  we 
reached  the  blockhouse.  It  will  be  brief.  We  formed  in  line  with 
the  reinforcements  that  had  come  from  Murfreesboro,  and  ad 
vanced  toward  the  train.  We  encountered  no  opposition;  the 
enemy  had  set  fire  to  the  cars,  and  then  had  hastily  and  entirely 
disappeared. 

I  have  recently  discovered  in  a  modern  edition  of  the  Reports 
of  the  Adjutant-General  of  Illinois,  (the  date  on  the  title  page 
being  1901,)  that  in  the  revised  sketch  of  our  regiment  a  recital 
has  crept  in  stating  that  in  our  subsequent  advance  we  "recap 
tured  the  train  in  time  to  prevent  its  destruction."  How  that 
statement  got  into  the  sketch  I  do  not  know,  and  I  am  sorry  to 
be  under  the  necessity  of  saying  that  it  is  not  true.  When  we  got 
back  to  the  scene  of  the  fight  the  train  was  a  mass  of  roaring 
flame,  the  resulting  consequence  being  that  every  car  was  finally 
consumed.  No  matter  how  much  it  may  hurt,  it  is  always  best 
to  be  fair,  and  tell  the  truth. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  our  troops  all  returned  to  Murfrees 
boro.  Maj.  Nulton,  who  was  now  our  regimental  commander, 


1st  Lieutenant  Co.  H,  (>lst  Illinois  Infantry. 

Died  December  19,  18(34,  of  a  wound  received  in  a  fight    on 
the  railroad,  near  Murfreesboro,  Tenn.,  December  lo   !Sn4. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  255 

gave  us  of  the  61st  permission  to  march  back  "at  will."  That  is, 
we  could  start  when  we  got  ready,  singly  or  in  squads,  and  not  in 
regimental  formation.  So  Bill  Banfield  and  I  started  out  to  get 
something  to  eat,  as  we  were  very  hungry.  Since  leaving  Steven 
son  on  the  morning  of  the  14th,  we  had  had  no  opportunity  to  cook 
anything,  and  had  eaten  nothing  but  some  hardtack  and  raw 
bacon.  Then  that  night  we  had  left  our  haversacks  on  top  of  the 
cars  when  we  got  off  the  train  to  skirmish  with  the  enemy,  and 
never  saw  them  again.  And  this  was  a  special  grievance  for  Bill 
and  me.  We  each  had  a  little  money,  and  on  the  morning  we  left 
Stevenson  had  gone  to  a  sutler's,  and  made  some  purchases  to 
insure  us  an  extra  good  meal  when  we  got  back  to  Murfreesboro. 
I  bought  a  little  can  of  condensed  milk,  (having  always  had  a 
weakness  for  milk  in  coffee,)  while  Bill,  with  a  kind  of  queer 
taste,  invested  in  a  can  of  lobsters.  One  time  that  night,  while 
sitting  on  the  ground,  in  the  cold  and  dark,  tired,  hungry,  and 
sleepy,  waiting  while  our  engineers  patched  a  break  in  the  rail 
road,  Bill,  with  a  view,  I  reckon,  to  cheering  us  both  up,  delivered 
himself  in  this  wise:  "This  is  a  little  tough,  Stillwell,  but  just 
think  of  that  bully  dinner  we'll  have  when  we  get  to  Murfrees 
boro!  You've  your  can  of  condensed  milk,  and  I've  mine  of  lob 
sters  ;  we'll  have  coffee  with  milk  in  it,  and  then,  with  some  hard 
tack,  we'll  have  a  spread  that  will  make  up  for  this  all  right." 
But,  alas! 

"The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley." 

My  precious  condensed  milk,  and  the  crustaceans  aforesaid  of 
Bill's,  doubtless  went  glimmering  down  the  alimentary  canal  of 
some  long-haired  Texan,  to  his  great  satisfaction.  My  wish  at 
the  time  was  that  the  darned  lobsters  might  make  the  fellow  sick, 
—which  they  probably  did.  So  Bill  and  I  were  now  at  the  burn 
ing  train,  looking  for  something  to  take  the  place  of  our  captured 
Belshazzar  banquet.  We  found  a  car  that  was  loaded  with  pick 
led  pork  in  barrels,  and  getting  a  fence  rail,  we  finally  succeeded, 
after  some  peril  and  much  difficulty,  in  prying  off  one  of  the  bar- 


256  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

rels,  and  it  fell  to  the  ground,  bursting  open  as  it  did  so,  and  scat 
tering  the  blazing  pieces  of  pork  all  around.  We  each  got  a  por 
tion,  and  then  sat  down  on  a  big  rock,  and  proceeded  to  devour 
our  respective  chunks  without  further  ceremony.  The  outside  of 
the  meat  was  burned  to  a  coal,  but  we  were  hungry,  all  of  it 
tasted  mighty  sweet,  and  we  gnawed  it  just  like  dogs.  At  the 
close  of  the  repast,  I  took  a  look  at  Bill.  His  face  was  as  black  as 
tar  from  contact  with  the  burnt  pork,  and  in  other  respects  his 
"tout  ensemble"  "left  much  to  be  desired."  I  thought  if  I  looked 
as  depraved  as  Bill  certainly  did  it  would  be  advisable  to  avoid 
any  pocket  looking-glass  until  after  a  thorough  facial  ablution 
with  soft  water  and  plenty  of  soap.  Dinner  over,  we  were  soon 
ready  for  the  march  to  camp,  (there  being  no  dishes  to  wash,) 
and  started  down  the  railroad  track  for  Murfreesboro.  We  took 
our  time,  and  didn't  reach  camp  till  about  sundown.  We  were  the 
last  arrivals  of  Co.  D,  and,  as  there  were  all  sorts  of  rumors 
afloat,  we  afterwards  learned  that  Capt.  Keeley  had  become  quite 
anxious  about  us.  As  we  turned  down  our  company  street 'I  saw 
the  Captain  standing  in  front  of  his  tent,  looking  in  our  direction. 
After  the  affairs  of  the  4th  and  the  7th,  I  had  taken  much  satis 
faction,  in  speaking  to  him  of  those  events,  in  adopting  the  phrase 
ology  of  the  old  chaplain,  and  had  expressed  myself  several  times 
in  language  like  this:  "And  we  smote  them,  hip  and  thigh,  even 
as  Joash  smote  Boheel !"  But  it  was  now  necessary  to  amend  my 
boastful  statement,  so  as  I  approached  Capt.  Keeley,  and  before 
anything  else  had  been  spoken,  I  made  to  him  this  announcement : 
"And  they  smote  us,  hip  and  thigh,  even  as  Joash  smote  Boheel!" 
Keeley  laughed,  but  it  was  a  rather  dry  laugh,  and  he  answered : 
"Well,  I'm  glad  they  didn't  smite  you  boys,  anyhow — but,  great 
God !  go  wash  your  faces,  and  clean  up  generally.  You  both  look 
like  the  very  devil  himself."  We  passed  on,  complied  with  the 
Captain's  directions,  and  then  I  curled  up  in  my  dog  tent  and  slept 
without  a  break  until  next  morning. 

In  concluding  my  account  of  this  affair  it  will  be  stated  that 
the  most  of  our  boys  who  were  captured  in  the  fight,  and  (I  think) 


THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER.  257 

all  the  line  officers  who  had  the  same  bad  luck,  made  their  escape, 
singly,  or  in  little  parties,  not  long  thereafter.  Their  Confederate 
captors,  on  or  about  the  day  after  our  encounter,  had  hurriedly 
joined  the  army  of  Gen.  Hood,  taking  their  prisoners  with  them. 
In  their  retreat  from  Tennessee  on  this  occasion,  the  Confederates 
had  a  hard  and  perilous  time.  The  guards  of  the  captured  Yankees 
were  probably  well-nigh  worn  out,  and  it  is  likely  that,  on  account 
of  their  crushing  defeat  at  Nashville,  they  had  also  become  dis 
couraged  and  careless.  Anyhow,  the  most  of  our  fellows  got  away 
while  Hood  was  yet  on  the  north  side  of  the  Tennessee  river.  He 
crossed  that  stream  with  the  wreck  of  his  army  on  the  26th  and 
27th  of  December,  and  fell  back  into  Mississippi. 


258  THE  STORY   OF  A  COMMON   SOLDIER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


MURFREESBORO.— WINTER     OF     1864-1865.— FRANKLIN.- 
SPRING  AND  SUMMER  OF  1865. 

After  the  retreat  of  Hood  from  Nashville,  matters  became 
very  quiet  and  uneventful  with  us  at  Murfreesboro.  The  regiment 
shifted  its  camp  from  the  inside  of  Fortress  Rosecrans  out  into 
open  ground  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  proceeded  to  build 
winter  quarters.  These  consisted  of  log  cabins,  like  those  we  built 
at  Little  Rock  the  previous  winter,  only  now  the  logs  were  cedar 
instead  of  pine.  There  were  extensive  cedar  forests  in  the  im 
mediate  vicinity  of  Murfreesboro,  and  we  had  no  difficulty  whatever 
in  getting  the  material.  And  we  had  plenty  of  nice,  fragrant  cedar 
wood  to  burn  in  our  fire-places,  which  was  much  better  than  soggy 
Arkansas  pine.  And  I  remember  with  pleasure  a  matter  con 
nected  with  the  rations  we  had  in  the  fore  part  of  the  winter.  For 
some  reason  or  other  the  supply  of  hardtack  became  practically 
exhausted,  and  we  had  but  little  in  the  line  of  flour  bread,  even  for 
some  weeks  after  Hood  retreated  from  Nashville.  But  in  the 
country  north  of  Murfreesboro  was  an  abundance  of  corn,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  water-mills,  so  Gen.  Rousseau  sent  out  forag 
ing  parties  in  that  region  and  appropriated  the  corn,  and  set  the 
mills  to  grinding  it,  and  oh,  what  fine  cornbread  we  had !  We  used 
to  make  "asfc-cakes,"  and  they  were  splendid.  The  method  of  mak 
ing  and  cooking  an  ash-cake  was  to  mix  a  quantity  of  meal  with 
proper  proportions  of  water,  grease,  and  salt,  wrap  the  meal  dough 
in  some  dampened  paper,  or  a  clean,  wet  cloth,  then  put  it  in  the 
fire  and  cover  it  with  hot  ashes  and  coals.  By  testing  with  a  sharp 
stick  we  could  tell  when  the  cake  was  done,  then  we  would  yank 
it  from  the  fire,  scrape  off  the  fragments  of  the  covering  and  the 
adhering  ashes, — and  then,  with  bacon  broiled  on  the  cedar  coals, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  25!) 

and  plenty  of  good  strong  coffee,  we  would  have  a  dinner  better 
than  any  (from  my  standpoint)  that  Delmonico's  ever  served  up 
in  its  palmiest  days. 

On  February  4th,  1865,  the  non-veterans  and  recruits  of  th^ 
regiment  came  to  us  from  Arkansas,  and  so  we  were  once  more  all 
together,  except  a  few  that  were  in  the  Confederate  prisons  down 
South.  We  were  all  glad  to  see  each  other  once  more,  and  had 
many  tales  to  "swap,"  about  our  respective  experiences  during 
our  separation. 

On  February  10th,  Lieutenant  Wallace  resigned,  and  returned 
to  his  home  in  Illinois.  The  chief  reason  for  his  resignation  was 
on  account  of  some  private  matter  at  home,  which  was  giving  him 
much  anxiety  and  trouble.  Further,  the  war  in  the  region,  where 
we  were  was  practically  over,  and  there  was  nothing  doing,  with 
no  prospect,  so  far  as  we  knew,  of  any  mUitary  activity  for  the 
regiment  in  the  future.  Wallace's  resignation  left  Co.  D  without 
a  second  lieutenant,  as  we  then  did  not  have  enough  enlisted  men 
in  the  company  to  entitle  us  to  a  full  complement  of  commissioned 
officers,  and  the  place  remained  vacant  for  some  months. 

On  March  21st,  we  left  Murfreesboro  by  rail  and  went  to 
Nashville,  and  thence  to  Franklin,  about  twenty  miles  south  of 
Nashville,  and  on  what  was  then  called  the  Nashville  and  Decatur 
railroad.  A  desperate  and  bloody  battle  occurred  here  between 
our  forces  under  the  command  of  Gen.  Schofield  and  the  Confed 
erates  under  Gen.  Hood,  on  November  30th,  only  two  days  after 
our  arrival  at  Murfreesboro.  I  have  often  wondered  why  it  was 
that  Gen.  Thomas,  our  department  commander,  did  not  send  our 
regiment,  on  our  arrival  at  Nashville,  to  reinforce  Schofield,  in 
stead  of  to  Murfreesboro,  for  Gen.  Schofield  certainly  needed  all 
the  help  he  could  get.  But  it  is  probable  that  Gen.  Thomas  had 
some  good  reason  for  his  action. 

When  we  arrived  at  Franklin  we  relieved  the  regiment  that 
was  on  duty  there  as  a  garrison,  and  it  went  somewhere  else.  It 
was  the  75th  Pennsylvania,  and  the  officers  and  men  composing  it, 


200  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

so  far  as  I  saw,  were  all  Germans.  And  they  were  fine,  soldierly 
looking  fellows,  too.  From  this  time  until  we  left  Franklin  in  the 
following  September,  our  regiment  comprised  all  the  Union  force 
that  was  stationed  at  the  town.  Maj.  Nulton  was  in  command  of 
the  post,  and,  subject  only  to  higher  authorities  at  a  distance,  wj 
were  "monarchs  of  all  we  surveyed."  When  we  came  to  Franklin 
the  signs  of  the  battle  of  November  30th  were  yet  fresh  and  plenti 
ful.  As  soon  as  time  and  opportunity  afforded,  I  walked  over  the 
whole  field,  (in  fact,  several  times,)  looking  with  deep  interest  at 
all  the  evidences  of  the  battle.  I  remember  especially  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  scattered  grove  of  young  locust  trees  which  stood 
at  a  point  opposite  the  right  center  of  the  Union  line.  For  some 
hours  the  grove  was  right  between  the  fire  of  both  the  Union  and 
the  Confederate  lines,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  trees  had  been 
riddled  with  musket  balls  was  truly  remarkable.  It  looked  as  if 
a  snowbird  could  not  have  lived  in  that  grove  while  the  firing  was 
in  progress. 

General  William  A.  Quarles,  of  Tennessee,  was  one  of  the 
Confederate  generals  who  were  wounded  in  this  battle,  and  after 
incurring  his  wound  was  taken  to  the  house  of  a  Tennessee  planter, 
Col.  McGavock,  about  a  mile  from  Franklin,  near  the  Harpeth 
river.  Two  or  three  other  wounded  Confederate  officers  of  less 
rank  were  taken  to  the  same  place.  When  the  Confederates  re 
treated  from  Nashville,  Gen.  Quarles  and  these  other  wounded  offi 
cers  were  unable  to  accompany  the  army.  They  remained  at  Mc- 
Gavock's,  and  were  taken  prisoners  by  our  forces.  They  were  put 
under  a  sort  of  parole  of  honor,  and  allowed  to  remain  where  they 
were,  without  being  guarded.  They  had  substantially  recovered 
from  their  wounds  at  the  time  our  regiment  arrived  at  Franklin, 
and  not  long  thereafter  Capt.  Keeley  came  to  me  one  day,  and 
handed  me  an  order  from.  Maj.  Nulton,  which  directed  me  to  take 
a  detail  of  four  men,  with  two  ambulances,  and  go  to  McGavock's 
and  get  Gen.  Quarles  and  the  other  Confederate  officers  who  were 
there,  and  bring  them  into  Franklin,  for  the  purpose  of  being  sent 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  261 

to  Nashville,  and  thence  to  the  north  to  some  military  prison.  I 
thereupon  detailed  Bill  Banfield  and  three  other  boys,  told  them 
what  our  business  was,  and  instructed  them  to  brush  up  nicely,  and 
have  their  arms  and  accouterments  in  first  class  condition,  and,  in 
general,  to  be  looking  their  best.  Having  obtained  the  ambulances, 
with  drivers,  we  climbed  aboard,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  fine  resi 
dence  of  old  Col.  McGavock.  I  went  into  the  house,  met  the  lady  of 
the  establishment,  and  inquired  of  her  for  Gen.  Quarles,  and  was 
informed  that  he  was  in  an  upper  room.  I  requested  the  lady  to 
give  the  general  my  compliments,  and  tell  him  that  I  desired  to 
see  him.  She  disappeared,  and  soon  the  general  walked  into  the 
room  where  I  was  awaiting  him.  He  was  a  man  slightly  below 
medium  stature,  heavy  set,  black  hair,  piercing  black  eyes,  and 
looked  to  be  about  thirty  years  old.  He  was  a  splendid  looking 
soldier.  I  stepped  forward  and  saluted  him,  and  briefly  and  courte 
ously  told  him  my  business.  "All  right,  sergeant,"  he  answered, 
"we'll  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes."  Their  preparations  were  soon 
completed,  and  we  left  the  house.  I  assigned  the  general  and  one  of 
the  other  officers  to  a  seat  near  the  front  in  one  of  the  ambulances, 
and  Bill  Banfield  and  I  occupied  the  seat  behind  them,  and  the  re 
maining  guards  and  prisoners  rode  in  the  other  conveyance.  There 
was  only  one  remark  made  on  the  entire  trip  back  to  Franklin, 
and  I'll  mention  it  presently.  We  emerged  from  the  woods  into  the 
Columbia  pike  at  a  point  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  front 
of  our  main  line  of  works  that  had  been  charged  repeatedly  and 
desperately  by  the  Confederates  in  the  late  battle.  The  ground 
sloped  gently  down  towards  the  works,  and  for  fully  half  a  mile  was 
as  level  as  a  house  floor.  I  noticed  that  at  the  moment  we  reached 
the  pike  Gen.  Quarles  began  to  take  an  intense  interest  in  the  sur 
roundings.  He  would  lean  forward,  and  look  to  the  right,  to  the 
front,  to  the  left,  and  occasionally  throw  a  hasty  glance  backward, 
—but  said  nothing.  Finally  we  passed  through  our  works,  near 
the  historic  "cotton-gin,"  and  the  general  drew  a  deep  breath, 
leaned  back  against  his  seat,  and  said :  "Well,  by  God,  the  next  time 
I  fight  at  Franklin,  I  want  to  let  the  Columbia  pike  severely  alone !" 


262  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

No  one  made  any  response,  and  the  remainder  of  the  journey  was 
finished  in  silence.  I  duly  delivered  Gen.  Quarles  and  his  fellow- 
prisoners  to  Maj.  Nulton,  and  never  saw  any  of  them  again. 

Early  in  April,  decisive  military  operations  took  place  in  Vir 
ginia.  On  the  3rd  of  that  month  our  forces  marched  into  Richmond, 
and  on  the  9th  the  army  of  Gen.  Lee  surrendered  to  Gen.  Grant. 
At  Franklin  we  were  on  a  telegraph  line,  and  only  about  twenty 
miles  from  department  headquarters,  so  the  intelligence  of  those 
events  was  not  long  in  reaching  us.  I  am  just  unable  to  tell  how 
profoundly  gratified  we  were  to  hear  of  the  capture  of  Richmond, 
and  of  Lee's  army.  We  were  satisfied  that  those  victories  meant 
the  speedy  and  triumphant  end  of  the  war.  It  had  been  a  long, 
desperate,  and  bloody  struggle,  and  frequently  the  final  result 
looked  doubtful  and  gloomy.  But  now, — "there  were  signs  in  the 
sky  that  the  darkness  was  gone;  there  were  tokens  in  endless 
array";  and  the  feeling  among  the  common  soldiers  was  one  of 
heart-felt  relief  and  satisfaction.  But  suddenly  our  joy  was  turned 
into  the  most  distressing  grief  and  mourning.  Only  a  few  days 
after  we  heard  of  Lee's  surrender  came  the  awful  tidings  of  the 
foul  murder  of  Mr.  Lincoln.  I  well  remember  the  manner  of  the 
men  when  the  intelligence  of  the  dastardly  crime  was  flashed  to 
us  at  Franklin.  They  seemed  dazed  and  stunned,  and  were  re 
luctant  to  believe  it,  until  the  fact  was  confirmed  beyond  question. 
They  sat  around  in  camp  under  the  trees,  talking  low,  and  saying 
but  little,  as  if  the  matter  were  one  that  made  mere  words  utterly 
useless.  But  they  were  in  a  desperate  frame  of  mind,  and  had 
there  been  the  least  appearance  of  exultation  over  the  murder  of 
Mr.  Lincoln  by  any  of  the  people  of  Franklin,  the  place  would  have 
been  laid  in  ashes  instanter.  But  the  citizens  seemed  to  understand 
the  situation.  They  went  into  their  houses,  and  closed  their  doors, 
and  the  town  looked  as  if  deserted.  To  one  who  had  been  among 
the  soldiers  for  some  years,  it  was  easy  to  comprehend  and  under 
stand  their  feelings  on  this  occasion.  For  the  last  two  years  of  the 
war  especially,  the  men  had  come  to  regard  Mr.  Lincoln  with  senti 
ments  of  veneration  and  love.  To  them  he  really  was  "Father 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  263 

Abraham,"  with  all  that  the  term  implied.  And  this  regard  was 
also  entertained  by  men  of  high  rank  in  the  army.  Gen.  Sherman, 
in  speaking  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  says  this : 

"Of  all  the  men  I  ever  met,  he  seemed  to  possess  more  of  the 
Clements  of  greatness,  combined  with  goodness,  than  any  other." 
(Memoirs  of  Gen.  W.  T.  Sherman,  revised  edition,  Vol.  2,  p.  328.) 

For  my  part,  I  have  been  of  the  opinion,  for  many  years,  that 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  the  greatest  man  the  world  has  ever  known. 

In  the  latter  part  of  June  the  recruits  of  the  83rd,  the  98th, 
and  the  123rd  Illinois  Infantry  were  transferred  to  the  61st,  mak 
ing  the  old  regiment  about  nine  hundred  strong.  Co.  D  received 
forty-six  of  the  transferred  men,  all  of  these  being  from  the  83rd 
Illinois.  And  they  were  a  fine  set  of  boys,  too.  Their  homes  were, 
in  the  main,  in  northwestern  Illinois,  in  the  counties  of  Mercer, 
Rock  Island,  and  Warren.  They  all  had  received  a  good  common 
school  education,  were  intelligent,  and  prompt  and  cheerful  in  the 
discharge  of  their  duties.  They  were  good  soldiers,  in  every  sense 
of  the  word.  It  is  a  little  singular  that,  since  the  muster-out  of  the 
regiment  in  the  following  September,  I  have  never  met  a  single  one 
of  these  boys. 

The  ranks  of  the  regiment  now  being  filled  nearly  to  the  max 
imum,  the  most  of  the  vacancies  that  existed  in  the  line  of  com 
missioned  officers  were  filled  just  as  promptly  as  circumstances 
would  permit.  Lieut.  Col.  Grass  had  been  discharged  on  May  15th, 
1865,  and  Maj.  Nulton,  who  was  now  our  ranking  field  officer,  was, 
on  July  llth,  promoted  to  the  position  of  Colonel.  He  was  the  first, 
and  only,  colonel  the  regiment  ever  had.  The  vacancy  in  the  lieu 
tenant-colonelcy  of  the  regiment  was  never  filled,  for  what  reason 
I  do  not  know.  Capt.  Keeley  was  promoted  Major,  and  first  Lieu 
tenant  Warren  to  Captain  of  Co.  D  in  Keeley's  stead.  And  thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  on  July  llth  I  received  a  commission  as  second 
lieutenant  of  our  company,  and  on  August  21st  was  promoted  to 
first  lieutenant.  Soon  after  receiving  my  commission,  Capt.  Warren 
was  detailed  on  some  special  duty  which  took  him  away  from  Frank 
lin  for  some  weeks,  and  consequently  during  his  absence  I  was  the 


264  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

commanding  officer  of  Co.  D.  So  far  as  ever  came  to  my  knowl 
edge,  I  got  along  all  right,  and  very  pleasantly.  It  is  a  fact,  at  any 
rate,  that  I  presented  a  more  respectable  appearance  than  that 
which  was  displayed  during  the  brief  time  I  held  the  position  at 
Austin,  Arkansas,  in  May,  1864. 


Major,  61st  Illinois  Infantry. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  265 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  PAY;  RATIONS;  ALLUSIONS  TO  SOME,  OF 

THE  USEFUL  LESSONS  LEARNED  BY  SERVICE  IN  THE 

ARMY  IN  TIME  OF  WAR;  COURAGE  IN  BATTLE. 

This  story  is  now  drawing-  to  a  close,  so  I  will  here  speak  of 
some  things  of  a  general  nature,  and  which  have  not  been  hereto 
fore  mentioned,  except  perhaps  casually. 

One  important  feature  in  the  life  of  a  soldier  was  the  matter 
of  his  pay,  and  a  few  words  on  that  subject  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
When  I  enlisted  in  January,  1862,  the  monthly  pay  of  the  enlisted 
men  of  a  regiment  of  infantry  was  as  follows :  First  sergeant,  $20 ; 
duty  sergeants,  $17;  corporals  and  privates,  $13.  By  act  of  Con 
gress  of  May  1st,  1864,  the  monthly  pay  of  the  enlisted  men  was 
increased,  and  from  that  date  was  as  follows :  First  sergeant,  $24 ; 
duty  sergeants,  $20;  corporals,  $18;  privates,  $16.  That  rate  ex 
isted  as  long,  at  least,  as  we  remained  in  the  service.  The  first  pay 
ment  made  to  our  regiment  was  on  May  1st,  1862,  while  we  were 
in  camp  at  Owl  Creek,  Tennessee.  The  amount  I  received  was 
$49.40,  and  of  this  I  sent  $45  home  to  my  father  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity.  For  a  poor  man,  he  was  heavily  in  debt  at  the  time  of  my 
enlistment,  and  was  left  without  any  boys  to  help  him  do  the  work 
upon  the  farm,  so  I  regarded  it  as  my  duty  to  send  him  every  dol 
lar  of  my  pay  that  possibly  could  be  spared,  and  did  so  as  long  as 
I  was  in  the  service.  But  he  finally  got  out  of  debt  during  the  war. 
He  had  good  crops,  and  all  manner  of  farm  products  brought  high 
prices,  so  the  war  period  was  financially  a  prosperous  one  for  him. 
And,  to  be  fair  about  it,  I  will  say  that  he  later  repaid  me,  when  I 
was  pursuing  my  law  studies  at  the  Albany,  New  York,  Law  School, 
almost  all  the  money  I  had  sent  him  while  in  the  army.  So  the  re 
sult  really  was  that  the  money  received  by  me,  as  a  soldier,  was 
what  later  enabled  me  to  qualify  as  a  lawyer. 


266  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

I  have  heretofore  said  in  these  reminiscences  that  the  great 
"stand-bys"  in  the  way  of  the  food  of  the  soldiers  of  the  western 
armies  were  coffee,  sow-belly,  Yankee  beans,  and  hardtack.  But 
other  articles  of  diet  were  also  issued  to  us,  some  of  which  we  liked, 
while  others  were  flat  failures.  I  have  previously  said  something 
about  the  antipathy  I  had  for  rice.  The  French  General,  Baron 
Gourgaud,  in  his  "Talks  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena"  (p.  240),  re 
cords  Napoleon  as  having  said,  "Rice  is  the  best  food  for  the  sol 
dier."  Napoleon,  in  my  opinion,  was  the  greatest  soldier  that  man 
kind  ever  produced, — but  all  the  same,  I  emphatically  dissent  from 
his  rice  proposition.  His  remark  may  have  been  correct  when  applied 
to  European  soldiers  of  his  time  and  place, — but  I  know  it  wouldn't 
fit  western  American  boys  of  1861-65. 

There  were  a  few  occasions  when  an  article  of  diet  was  issued 
called  "desiccated  potatoes."  For  "desiccated"  the  boys  promptly 
substituted  "desecrated,"  and  "desecrated  potatoes"  was  its  name 
among  the  rank  and  file  from  start  to  finish.  It  consisted  of  Irish 
potatoes  cut  up  fine  and  thoroughly  dried.  In  appearance  it  much 
resembled  the  modern  preparation  called  "grape  nuts."  We  would 
mix  it  in  water,  grease,  and  salt,  and  make  it  up  into  little  cakes, 
which  we  would  fry,  and  they  were  first  rate.  There  was  a  while 
when  we  were  at  Bolivar,  Tennessee,  that  some  stuff  called  "com 
pressed  vegetables"  was  issued  to  us,  which  the  boys,  almost 
unanimously,  considered  an  awful  fraud.  It  was  composed  of  all 
sorts  of  vegetables,  pressed  into  small  bales,  in  a  solid  mass,  and 
as  dry  as  threshed  straw.  The  conglomeration  contained  turnip- 
tops,  cabbage  leaves,  string-beans  (pod  and  all),  onion  blades,  and 
possibly  some  of  every  other  kind  of  a  vegetable  that  ever  grew 
in  a  garden.  It  came  to  the  army  in  small  boxes,  about  the  size  of 
the  Chinese  tea-boxes  that  were  frequently  seen  in  this  country 
about  fifty  years  ago.  In  the  process  of  cooking,  it  would  swell  up 
prodigiously, — a  great  deal  more  so  than  rice.  The  Germans  in 
the  regiment  would  make  big  dishes  of  soup  out  of  this  "baled  hay," 
as  we  called  it,  and  they  liked  it,  but  the  native  Americans,  after 
one  trial,  wouldn't  touch  it.  I  think  about  the  last  box  of  it  that 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  267 

was  issued  to  our  company  was  pitched  into  a  ditch  in  the  rear  of 
the  camp,  and  it  soon  got  thoroughly  soaked  and  loomed  up  about 
as  big  as  a  fair-sized  hay-cock.  "Split-peas"  were  issued  to  us, 
more  or  less,  during  all  the  time  we  were  in  the  service.  My  under 
standing  was  that  they  were  the  ordinary  garden  peas.  They  were 
split  in  two,  dried,  and  about  as  hard  as  gravel.  But  they  yielded 
to  cooking,  made  excellent  food,  and  we  were  all  fond  of  them.  In 
our  opinion,  when  properly  cooked,  they  were  almost  as  good  as 
Yankee  beans. 

When  our  forces  captured  Little  Rock  in  September,  1863,  we 
obtained  possession,  among  other  plunder,  of  quite  a  quantity  of 
Confederate  commissary  stores.  Among  these  was  a  copious  supply 
of  "jerked  beef."  It  consisted  of  narrow,  thin  strips  of  beef,  which 
had  been  dried  on  scaffolds  in  the  sun,  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to 
say  that  it  was  almost  as  hard  and  dry  as  a  cottonwood  chip.  Our 
manner  of  eating  it  was  simply  to  cut  off  a  chunk  about  as  big  as 
one  of  our  elongated  musket  balls,  and  proceed  to  "chaw."  It  was 
rather  a  comical  sight  to  see  us  in  our  cabins  of  a  cold  winter  night, 
sitting  by  the  fire,  and  all  solemnly  "chawing"  away,  in  profound 
silence,  on  the  Johnnies'  jerked  beef.  But,  if  sufficiently  masti 
cated,  it  was  nutritious  and  healthful,  and  we  all  liked  it.  I  often 
thought  it  would  have  been  a  good  thing  if  the  government  had 
made  this  kind  of  beef  a  permanent  and  regular  addition  to  our 
rations.  As  long  as  kept  in  the  dry,  it  would  apparently  keep  in 
definitely,  and  a  piece  big  enough  to  last  a  soldier  two  or  three  days 
would  take  up  but  little  space  in  a  haversack. 

Passing  from  the  topic  of  army  rations,  I  will  now  take  leave 
to  say  here,  with  sincerity  and  emphasis,  that  the  best  school  to 
fit  me  for  thq  practical  affairs  of  life  that  I  ever  attended  was  in 
the  old  61st  Illinois  during  the  Civil  War.  It  would  be  too  long  a 
story  to  undertake  to  tell  all  the  benefits  derived  from  that  ex 
perience,  but  a  few  will  be  alluded  to.  In  the  first  place,  when  I 
was  a  boy  at  home,  I  was,  to  some  extent,  a  "spoiled  child."  I  was 
exceedingly  particular  and  "finicky"  about  my  food.  Fat  meat  I 
abhorred,  and  wouldn't  touch  it,  and  on  the  other  hand,  when  we 


268  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

had  chicken  to  eat,  the  gizzard  was  claimed  by  me  as  my  sole  and 
exclusive  tid-bit,  and  "Leander"  always  got  it.  Let  it  be  known 
that  in  the  regiment  those  habits  were  gotten  over  so  soon  that  I 
was  astonished  myself.  The  army  in  time  of  war  is  no  place  for 
a  "sissy-boy ;"  it  will  make  a  man  of  him  quicker,  in  my  opinion, 
than  any  other  sort  of  experience  he  could  undergo.  And  suffice 
it  to  say,  on  the  food  question,  that  my  life  as  a  soldier  forever 
cured  me  of  being  fastidious  or  fault-finding  about  what  I  had  to 
eat.  I  have  gone  hungry  too  many  times  to  give  way  to  such  weak 
ness  when  sitting  down  in  a  comfortable  room  to  a  table  provided 
with  plenty  that  was  good  enough  for  any  reasonable  man.  I  have 
no  patience  with  a  person  who  is  addicted  to  complaining  or  growl 
ing  about  his  food.  Some  years  ago  there  was  an  occasion  when 
I  took  breakfast  at  a  decent  little  hotel  at  a  country  way-station 
on  a  railroad  out  in  Kansas.  It  was  an  early  breakfast,  for  the  ac 
commodation  of  guests  who  would  leave  on  an  early  morning  train, 
and  there  were  only  two  at  the  table, — a  young  traveling  com 
mercial  man  and  myself.  The  drummer  ordered  (with  other 
things)  a  couple  of  fried  eggs,  and  that  fellow  sent  the  poor  little 
dining  room  girl  back  with  those  eggs  three  times  before  he  got 
them  fitted  to  the  exact  shade  of  taste  to  suit  his  exquisite  palate. 
And  he  did  this,  too,  in  a  manner  and  words  that  were  offensive 
and  almost  brutal.  It  was  none  of  my  business,  so  I  kept  my  mouth 
shut  and  said  nothing,  but  I  would  have  given  a  reasonable  sum 
to  have  been  the  proprietor  of  that  hotel  about  five  minutes.  That 
fool  would  then  have  been  ordered  to  get  his  grip  and  leave  the 
house, — and  he  would  have  left,  too. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  may  have  been  with  other  regiments  in 
the  matter  now  to  be  mentioned,  but  I  presume  it  was  substantially 
the  same  as  in  ours.  And  the  course  pursued  with  us  had  a  direct 
tendency  to  make  one  indifferent  as  to  the  precise  cut  of  his  clothes. 
It  is  true  that  attention  was  paid  to  shoes,  to  that  extent,  at  least, 
that  the  quartermaster  tried  to  give  each  man  a  pair  that  approx 
imated  to  the  number  he  wore.  But  coats,  trousers,  and  the  other 
clothes  were  piled  up  in  separate  heaps,  and  each  man  was  just 


THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER.  269 

thrown  the  first  garment  on  the  top  of  the  heap;  he  took  it  and 
walked  away.  If  it  was  an  outrageous  fit,  he  would  swap  with  some 
one  if  possible,  otherwise  he  got  along  as  best  he  could.  Now,  in 
civil  life,  I  have  frequently  been  amused  in  noting  some  dudish 
young  fellow  in  a  little  country  store  trying  to  fit  himself  out  with 
a  light  summer  coat,  or  something  similar.  He  would  put  on  the 
garment,  stand  in  front  of  a  big  looking  glass,  twist  himse.f  into  all 
sorts  of  shapes  so  as  to  get  a  view  from  every  possible  angle,  then 
remove  that  one,  and  call  for  another.  Finally,  after  trying  on 
about  every  coat  in  the  house,  he  would  leave  without  making  a 
purchase,  having  found  nothing  that  suited  the  exact  contour  of 
his  delicately  moulded  form.  A  very  brief  experience  in  a  regiment 
that  had  a  gruff  old  quartermaster  would  take  that  tuck  out  of  that 
Beau  Brummell,  in  short  order. 

Sometimes  I  have  been,  at  a  late  hour  on  a  stormy  night,  at  a 
way-station  on  some  "jerk-water"  railroad,  waiting  for  a  belated 
train,  with  others  in  the  same  predicament.  And  it  was  comical 
to  note  the  irritation  of  some  of  these  fellows  and  the  fuss  they 
made  about  the  train  being  late.  The  railroad,  and  all  the  officers, 
would  be  condemned  and  abused  in  the  most  savage  terms  on  ac 
count  of  this  little  delay.  And  yet  we  were  in  a  warm  room,  with 
benches  to  sit  on,  with  full  stomachs,  and  physically  just  as  com 
fortable  as  we  possibly  could  be.  The  thought  would  always  occur 
to  me,  on  such  episodes,  that  if  those  kickers  had  to  sit  down  in  a 
dirt  road,  in  the  mud,  with  a  cold  rain  pelting  down  on  them,  and 
just  endure  all  this  until  a  broken  bridge  in  front  was  fixed  up  so 
that  the  artillery  and  wagon  train  could  get  along, — then  a  few 
incidents  of  that  kind  would  be  a  benefit  to  them.  And  instances 
like  the  foregoing  might  be  multiplied  indefinitely.  On  the  whole, 
life  in  the  army  in  a  time  of  war  tended  to  develop  patience,  con 
tentment  with  the  surroundings,  and  equanimity  of  temper  and 
mind  in  general.  And,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  differing 
only  in  degree,  it  would  bring  out  energy,  prompt  decision,  intelli 
gent  action,  and  all  the  latent  force  of  character  a  man  possessed. 

I  suppose,  in  reminiscences  of  this  nature,  one  should  give  his 


270  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

impressions,  or  views,  in  relation  to  that  much  talked  about  sub 
ject, — "Courage  in  battle."  Now,  in  what  I  have  to  say  on  that 
head,  I  can  speak  advisedly  mainly  for  myself  only.  I  think  that 
the  principal  thing  that  held  me  to  the  work  was  simply  pride;  and 
am  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  the  same  thing  with  most  of  the  com 
mon  soldiers.  A  prominent  American  functionary  some  years  ago 
said  something  about  our  people  being  "too  proud  to  fight."  With 
the  soldiers  of  the  Civil  War  it  was  exactly  the  reverse, — they  were 
"too  proud  to  run"; — unless  it  was  manifest  that  the  situation  was 
hopeless,  and  that  for  the  time  being  nothing  else  could  be  done. 
And,  in  the  latter  case,  when  the  whole  line  goes  back,  there  is  no 
personal  odium  attaching  to  any  one  individual ;  they  are  all  in  the 
same  boat.  The  idea  of  the  influence  of  pride  is  well  illustrated  by 
an  old-time  war  story,  as  follows :  A  soMier  on  the  firing  line  hap 
pened  to  notice  a  terribly  affrighted  rabbit  running  to  the  rear  at 
the  top  of  its  speed.  "Go  it,  cotton-tail!"  yelled  the  soldier.  "I'd 
run  too  if  I  had  no  more  reputation  to  lose  than  you  have." 

It  is  true  that  in  the  first  stages  of  the  war  the  fighting  quali 
ties  of  American  soldiers  did  not  appear  in  altogether  a  favorable 
light.  But  at  that  time  the  fact  is  that  the  volunteer  armies  on 
both  sides  were  not  much  better  than  mere  armed  mobs,  and  with 
out  discipline  or  cohesion.  But  those  conditions  didn't  last  long, — 
and  there  was  never  but  one  Bull  Run. 

Enoch  Wallace  was  home  on  recruiting  service  some  weeks  in 
the  fall  of  1862,  and  when  he  rejoined  the  regiment  he  told  me 
something  my  father  said  in  a  conversation  that  occurred  between 
the  two.  They  were  talking  about  the  war,  battles,  and  topics  of 
that  sort,  and  in  the  course  of  their  talk  Enoch  told  me  that  my 
lather  said  that  while  he  hoped  his  boy  would  come  through  the  war 
L\\  right,  yet  he  would  rather  "Leander  should  be  killed  dead,  while 
standing  up  and  fighting  like  a  man,  than  that  he  should  run,  and 
disgrace  the  family."  I  have  no  thought  from  the  nature  of  the 
conversation  as  told  to  me  by  Enoch  that  my  father  made  this  re 
mark  with  any  intention  of  its  being  repeated  to  me.  It  was  sudden 
and  spontaneous,  and  just  the  way  the  old  backwoodsman  felt.  But 


THE  STORY  OF   A   COMMON   SOLDIER.  271 

1  never  forgot  it,  and  it  helped  me  several  times.  For,  to  be  per 
fectly  frank  about  it,  and  tell  the  plain  truth,  I  will  set  it  down  here 
that,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  away  down  in  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  just  secretly  dreaded  a  battle.  But  we  were  soldiers,  and  it 
was  our  business  to  fight  when  the  time  came,  so  the  only  thing 
to  then  do  was  to  summon  up  our  pride  and  resolution,  and  face  the 
ordeal  with  all  the  fortitude  we  could  command.  And  while  I  ad 
mit  the  existence  of  this  feeling  of  dread  before  the  fight,  yet  it  is 
also  true  that  when  it  was  on,  and  one  was  in  the  thick  of  it,  with 
the  smell  of  gunpowder  permeating  h's  whole  system,  then  a  signal 
change  comes  over  a  man.  He  is  seized  with  a  furious  desire  to 
kill.  There  are  his  foes,  right  in  plain  view,  give  it  to  'em,  d —  'em ! 
— and  for  the  time  being  he  becomes  almost  oblivious  to  the  sense 
of  danger. 

And  while  it  was  only  human  nature  to  dread  a  battle, — and 
1  think  it  would  be  mere  affectation  to  deny  it,  yet  I  also  know  that 
we  common  soldiers  strongly  felt  that  when  fighting  did  break  loose 
close  at  hand,  or  within  the  general  scope  of  our  operations,  then 
we  ought  to  be  in  it,  with  the  others,  and  doing  our  part.  That  was 
what  we  were  there  for,  and  somehow  a  soldier  didn't  feel  just  right 
for  fighting  to  be  going  on  all  round  him,  or  in  his  vicinity,  and  he 
doing  nothing  but  lying  back  somewhere,  eating  government  ra 
tions. 

But,  all  things  considered,  the  best  definition  of  true  courage 
I  have  ever  read  is  that  given  by  Gen.  Sherman  in  his  Memoirs,  as 
follows : 

"I  would  define  true  courage,"  (he  says,)  "to  be  a  perfect 
sensibility  of  the  measure  of  danger,  and  a  mental  willingness  to 
endure  it."  (Sherman's  Memoirs,  revised  edition,  Vol.  2,  p.  395.) 
But,  I  will  further  say,  in  this  connection,  that,  in  my  opinion,  much 
depends,  sometimes,  especially  at  a  critical  moment,  on  the  com 
mander  of  the  men  who  is  right  on  the  ground,  or  close  at  hand. 
This  is  shown  by  the  result  attained  by  Gen.  Milroy  in  the  incident 
I  have  previously  mentioned.  And,  on  a  larger  scale,  the  inspiring 
conduct  of  Gen.  Sheridan  at  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  Virginia, 


272  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

is  probably  the  most  striking  example  in  modern  history  of  what  a 
brave  and  resolute  leader  of  men  can  accomplish  under  circum 
stances  when  apparently  all  is  lost.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  I  think 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek,  Missouri,  on 
August  10,  1861,  was  a  Union  victory  up  to  the  time  of  the  death 
of  Gen.  Lyon,  and  would  have  remained  such  if  the  officer  who  suc 
ceeded  Lyon  had  possessed  the  nerve  of  his  fallen  chief.  But  he 
didn't,  and  so  he  marched  our  troops  off  the  field,  retreated  from 
a  beaten  enemy,  and  hence  Wilson's  Creek  figures  in  history  as  a 
Confederate  victory.  (See  'The  Lyon  Campaign,"  by  Eugene  F. 
Ware,  pp.  324-339.)  I  have  read  somewhere  this  saying  of  Bona 
parte's:  "An  army  of  deer  commanded  by  a  lion  is  better  than  an 
army  of  lions  commanded  by  a  deer."  While  that  statement  is 
only  figurative  in  its  nature,  it  is,  however,  a  strong  epigrammatic 
expression  of  the  fact  that  the  commander  of  soldiers  in  battle 
should  be,  above  all  other  things,  a  forcible,  determined,  and  brave 
man. 


THE  STORY  OF   A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  273 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


FRANKLIN,  SUMMER  OF  1865.— MUSTERED  OUT,  SEPTEM 
BER  8,  1865.— RECEIVE  FINAL  PAYMENT  AT  SPRING 
FIELD,  ILLINOIS,  SEPTEMBER  27,  1865.— THE  REGI 
MENT  "BREAKS  RANKS"  FOREVER. 

Soldiering  at  Franklin,  Tennessee,  in  May,  June,  July,  and 
August,  1865,  was  simply  of  a  picnic  kind.  The  war  was  over  in 
that  region,  and  everything  there  was  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  it 
was  at  home  in  Illinois.  Picket  guards  were  dispensed  with,  and 
the  only  guard  duty  required  was  a  small  detail  for  the  colors  at 
regimental  headquarters,  and  a  similar  one  over  our  commissary 
stores.  However,  it  was  deemed  necessary  for  the  health  of  the 
men  to  maintain  company  drills  to  a  certain  extent,  but  they  were 
light  and  easy.  Near  the  camp  was  a  fine  blue-grass  pasture  field, 
containing  in  a  scattered,  irregular  form  numerous  large  and  mag 
nificent  hard  maples,  and  the  drilling  was  done  in  this  field.  Capt. 
Warren  was  somewhat  portly,  and  not  fond  of  strenuous  exercise 
anyhow,  so  all  the  drilling  Co.  D  had  at  Franklin  was  conducted  by 
myself.  But  I  rather  liked  it.  With  the  accession  of  those  83rd 
Illinois  men,  the  old  company  was  about  as  big  and  strong  as  it  was 
at  Camp  Carrollton,  and  it  looked  fine.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is 
highly  probable  that  we  put  in  fully  as  much  time  lying  on  the  blue 
grass  under  the  shade  of  those  grand  old  maples  as  we  did  in  com 
pany  evolutions. 

Sometime  during  the  course  of  the  summer  a  middle  aged 
widow  lady  named  House  began  conducting  a  sort  of  private  board 
ing  establishment  at  her  residence  in  the  city,  and  Col.  Nulton,  Maj. 
Keeley,  and  several  of  the  line  officers,  including  myself,  took  our 
meals  at  this 'place  during  the  remainder  of  our  stay  at  Franklin. 
Among  the  boarders  were  two  or  three  gentlemen  also  of  the  name 


274  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

of  House,  and  who  were  brothers-in-law  of  our  hostess.  They  had 
all  served  in  Forrest's  cavalry  as  commissioned  officers,  and  were 
courteous  and  elegant  gentlemen.  We  would  all  sit  down  together 
at  the  table  of  Mrs.  House,  with  that  lady  at  the  head,  and  talk  and 
laugh,  and  joke  with  each  other,  as  if  we  had  been  comrades  and 
friends  all  our  lives.  And  yet,  during  the  four  years  just  preced 
ing,  the  Union  and  the  Confederate  soldiers  thus  mingled  together 
in  friendship  and  amity  had  been  doing  their  very  best  to  kill  one 
another!  But  in  our  conversation  we  carefully  avoided  anything 
in  the  nature  of  political  discussion  about  the  war,  and  in  general 
each  side  refrained  from  saying  anything  on  that  subject  which 
might  grate  on  the  feelings  of  the  other. 

On  September  4th,  1865,  the  regiment  left  Franklin  and  went 
by  rail  to  Nashville  for  the  purpose  of  being  mustered  out  of  the 
service.  There  were  some  unavoidable  delays  connected  with  the 
business,  and  it  was  not  officially  consummated  until  September 
8th.  In  the  forenoon  of  the  following  day  we  left  Nashville  on  the 
cars,  on  the  Louisville  and  Nashville  railroad,  for  Springfield, 
Illinois,  where  we  were  to  receive  our  final  payment  and  certificates 
of  discharge. 

Early  on  Sunday  morning,  September  10th,  we  crossed  the 
Ohio  river  at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  on  a  ferry  boat,  to  Jefferson- 
ville,  Indiana.  This  boat  was  provided  with  a  railroad  track  ex 
tending  from  bow  to  stern,  and  so  arranged  that  when  the  boat 
landed  at  either  bank,  the  rails  laid  along  the  lower  deck  of  the  boat 
would  closely  connect  with  the  railroad  track  on  the  land.  This 
ferry  transferred  our  train  in  sections,  and  thus  obviated  any 
necessity  for  the  men  to  leave  the  cars.  The  ferrying  process  did 
not  take  long,  and  we  were  soon  speeding  through  southern  Indiana. 
As  stated,  it  was  Sunday,  and  a  bright,  beautiful  autumn  day.  As 
I  have  hereinbefore  mentioned,  our  train  consisted  of  box  cars, 
(except  one  coach  for  the  commissioned  officers,)  and  all  the  men 
who  could  find  room  had  taken,  from  preference,  seats  on  top  of 
the  cars.  Much  of  southern  Indiana  is  rugged  and  broken,  and  in 
1865  was  wild,  heavily  timbered,  and  the  most  of  the  farm  houses 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  275 

were  of  the  backwoods  class.  We  soon  began  to  see  little  groups 
of  the  country  people,  in  farm  wagons,  or  on  foot,  making  their 
way  to  Sunday  school  and  church.  Women,  young  girls,  and  chil 
dren  predominated,  all  dressed  in  their  ' 'Sunday-go-to-meeting" 
clothes.  And  how  the  women  and  girls  cheered  us,  and  waved  their 
handkerchiefs!  And  didn't  we  yell!  It  was  self-evident  that  we 
were  in  "God's  Country"  once  more.  These  were  the  first  demon 
strations  of  that  kind  the  old  regiment  had  seen  since  the  girls  of 
Monticello  Seminary,  in  February,  1862,  lined  the  fences  by  the  road 
side  and  made  similar  manifestations  of  patriotism  and  good  will. 

We  arrived  at  Indianapolis  about  noon,  there  got  off  the  cars 
and  went  in  a  body  to  a  Soldiers'  Home  close  at  hand,  where  we  had 
a  fine  dinner;  thence  back  to  the  old  train,  which  thundered  on  the 
rest  of  the  day  and  that  night,  arriving  at  Springfield  the  following 
day,  the  llth.  Here  we  marched  out  to  Camp  Butler,  near  the  city, 
and  went  into  camp. 

And  now  another  annoying  delay  occurred,  this  time  being  in 
the  matter  of  our  final  payment.  What  the  particular  cause  was 
I  do  not  know;  probably  the  paymasters  were  so  busy  right  then 
that  they  couldn't  get  around  to  us.  The  most  of  us  (that  is,  of 
the  old,  original  regiment)  were  here  within  sixty  or  seventy  miles 
of  our  homes,  and  to  be  compelled  to  just  lie  around  and  wait  here 
at  Camp  Butler  was  rather  trying.  But  the  boys  were  patient,  and 
on  the  whole  endured  the  situation  with  commendable  equanimity. 
"But  the  day  it  came  at  last,"  and  in  the  forenoon  of  September 
27th  we  fell  in  line  by  companies,  and  each  company  in  its  turn 
marched  to  the  paymaster's  tent,  near  regimental  headquarters. 
The  roll  of  the  company  would  be  called  in  alphabetical  order,  and 
each  man,  as  his  name  was  called,  would  answer,  and  step  forward 
to  the  paymaster's  table.  That  officer  would  lay  on  the  table  be 
fore  the  man  the  sum  of  money  he  was  entitled  to,  and  with  it  his 
certificate  of  discharge  from  the  army,  duly  signed  by  the  proper 
officials.  The  closing  of  the  hand  of  the  soldier  over  that  piece  of 
paper  was  the  final  act  in  the  drama  that  ended  his  career  as  a 
soldier  of  the  Civil  War,  Now  he  was  a  civilian,  free  to  come  and 


276  THE  STORY  OF  A   COMMON  SOLDIER. 

go  as  he  listed.  Farewell  to  the  morning  drum-beats,  taps,  roll- 
calls,  drills,  marches,  battles,  and  all  the  other  incidents  and  events 
of  a  soldier's  life. 

"The  serried  ranks,  with  flags  displayed, 

The  bugle's  thrilling  blast. 
The  charge,  the  thund'rous  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout — were  past." 

The  scattering-out  process  promptly  began  after  we  received 
our  pay  and  discharges.  I  left  Springfield  early  the  following  day, 
the  28th,  on  the  Chicago,  Alton,  and  St.  Louis  railroad,  and  went 
to  Alton.  Here  I  luckily  found  a  teamster  who  was  in  the  act  of 
starting  with  his  wagon  and  team  to  Jerseyville,  and  I  rode  with 
him  to  that  place,  arriving  there  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
I  now  hunted  diligently  to  find  some  farm  wagon  that  might  be 
going  to  the  vicinity  of  home,  but  found  none.  While  so  engaged, 
to  my  surprise  and  great  delight,  I  met  the  old  Chaplain,  B.  B. 
Hamilton.  As  heretofore  stated,  he  had  resigned  during  the  previ 
ous  March  and  had  been  at  home  for  some  months.  His  greeting 
to  me  was  in  his  old-fashioned  style.  "Son  of  Jeremiah!"  he  ex 
claimed,  as  he  extended  his  hand,  "why  comest  thou  down  hither? 
And  with  whom  hast  thou  left  those  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness?" 
I  promptly  informed  him,  in  effect,  that  my  coming  was  regular 
and  legitimate,  and  that  the  "few  sheep"  of  the  old  regiment  were 
forever  through  and  done  with  a  shepherd.  Hamilton  did  not  re 
side  in  Jerseyville,  but  had  just  arrived  there  from  his  home  in 
Greene  county,  and,  like  me,  was  trying  to  find  some  farmer's  con 
veyance  to  take  him  about  five  miles  into  the  country  to  the  home 
of  an  old  friend.  I  ascertained  that  his  route,  as  far  as  he  went, 
was  the  same  as  mine,  so  I  proposed  that  we  should  strike  out  on 
foot.  But  he  didn't  entertain  the  proposition  with  much  enthusi 
asm.  "Son  of  Jeremiah,"  said  he,  "you  will  find  that  a  walk  of  nine 
miles"  (the  distance  to  my  father's)  "will  be  a  great  weariness  to 
the  flesh  on  this  warm  day."  But  I  considered  it  a  mere  pleasure 
walk,  and  was  determined  to  go,  so  he  finally  concluded  to  do  like 
wise.  I  left  my  valise  in  the  care  of  a  Jerseyville  merchant,  and 
with  no  baggage  except  my  sword  and  belt,  we  proceeded  to  "hit 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER.  277 

the  dirt."  I  took  off  my  coat,  slung  it  over  one  shoulder,  unsnapped 
my  sword,  with  the  scabbard,  from  the  belt,  and  shouldered  it  also. 
Our  walk  was  a  p'easant  and  most  agreeable  one,  as  we  had  much 
to  talk  about  that  was  interesting  to  both.  When  we  arrived  at 
the  mouth  of  the  lane  that  led  to  the  house  of  the  Chaplain's  friend, 
we  shook  hands  and  I  bade  him  good-by,  but  fully  expected  to  meet 
him  many  times  later.  But  our  paths  in  life  diverged, — and  I  never 
saw  him  again. 

I  arrived  at  the  little  village  of  Otterville  about  sundown.  It 
was  a  very  small  place  in  1865.  There  was  just  one  store,  (which 
also  contained  the  post-office,)  a  blacksmith  shop,  the  old  "Stone 
school  house,"  a  church,  and  perhaps  a  dozen  or  so  private  dwellings. 
There  were  no  sidewalks,  and  I  stalked  up  the  middle  of  the  one 
street  the  town  afforded,  with  my  sword  poised  on  my  shoulder, 
musket  fashion,  and  feeling  happy  and  proud.  I  looked  eagerly 
around  as  I  passed  along,  hoping  to  see  some  old  friend.  As  I  went 
by  the  store,  a  man  who  was  seated  therein  on  the  counter  leaned 
forward  and  looked  at  me,  but  said  nothing.  A  little  further  up 
the  street  a  big  dog  sprang  off  the  porch  of  a  house,  ran  out  to  the 
1  ttle  gate  in  front,  and  standing  on  his  hind  legs  with  his  fore  paws 
on  the  palings,  barked  at  me  loudly  and  persistently, — but  I  at 
tracted  no  further  attention.  Many  of  the  regiments  that  were 
mustered  out  soon  after  the  close  of  the  war  received  at  home 
gorgeous  receptions.  They  marched  under  triumphal  arches,  decor 
ated  with  flags  and  garlands  of  flowers,  while  brass  bands  blared, 
and  thousands  of  people  cheered,  and  gave  them  a  most  enthusiastic 
"Welcome  Home!"  But  the  poor  old  61st  Illinois  was  among  the 
late  arrivals.  The  discharged  soldiers  were  now  numerous  and 
common,  and  no  longer  a  novelty.  Personally  I  didn't  care,  rather 
leally  preferred  to  come  back  home  modestly  and  quietly,  and  with 
out  any  "fuss  and  leathers''  whatever.  Still,  I  would  have  felt  bet 
ter  to  have  met  at  least  one  person  as  I  passed  through  the  little 
village  who  would  have  given  me  a  hearty  hand-shake,  and  said  he 
was  glad  to  see  me  home,  safe  from  the  war.  But  it's  all  right,  for 
many  such  were  met  later. 


278  THE  STORY  OF  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

I  now  had  only  two  miles  to  go,  and  was  soon  at  the  dear  old 
boyhood  home.  My  folks  were  expecting  me,  so  they  were  not 
taken  by  surprise.  There  was  no  "scene"  when  we  met,  nor  any 
effusive  display,  but  we  all  had  a  feeling  of  profound  contentment 
and  satisfaction  which  was  too  deep  to  be  expressed  by  mere  words. 

When  I  returned  home  I  found  that  the  farm  work  my  father 
was  then  engaged  in  was  cutting  up  and  shocking  corn.  So,  the 
morning  after  my  arrival,  September  29th,  I  doffed  my  uniform  of 
lirst  lieutenant,  put  on  some  of  father's  old  clothes,  armed  myself 
with  a  corn  knife,  and  proceeded  to  wage  war  on  the  standing  corn. 
The  feeling  I  had  while  engaged  in  this  work  was  "sort  of  queer." 
It  almost  seemed,  sometimes,  as  if  I  had  been  away  only  a  day  or 
two,  and  had  just  taken  up  the  farm  work  where  I  had  left  off. 

Here  this  story  will  close. 

In  conclusion  I  will  say  that  in  civil  life  people  have  been  good 
to  me.  I  have  been  honored  with  different  positions  of  trust,  im 
portance,  and  responsibility,  and  which  I  have  reason  to  believe  I 
filled  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  public.  I  am  proud  of  the  fact  of 
having  been  deemed-  worthy  to  fill  those  different  places.  But, 
while  that  is  so,  I  will  further  say,  in  absolute  sincerity,  that  to  me 
my  humble  career  as  a  soldier  in  the  61st  Illinois  during  the  War 
for  the  Union  is  the  record  that  I  prize  the  highest  of  all,  and  is  the 
proudest  recollection  of  my  life. 

THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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